Masquerade
by cascade-of-black-ink
Summary: When six MI6 agents working under a covert operation are killed, Bond is sent to Romania to seek out the last surviving agent of the operation: the mysterious, complicated Evelyn Foster with a mind of her own. And there is more to her than meets the eye..
1. Bodies in the River

Author's note: First ever fic of this kind although this is a rewrite – so comments are most welcome, especially those that aim to correct my knowledge of the Bond universe! However so, in this fic, let's all pretend that Bond is just – well, serving on another mission. Also, this takes place after Casino Royale, and it's sort of how I want the next Bond movie to be. Won't draw any parallels with the in-filming one, I PROMISE.

**Chapter 1: Bodies in the River**

"… _local fishermen unearthed three coffins from the river, each of them filled with two bodies, making the victim count a chilling six. The bodies have yet to be identified and authorities are not guaranteeing information access to the public; saying that the details are politically sensitive and…"_

A rustle of silk moved in the room as Mikhail Sorescu took another sip of whiskey from the ice-cold glass he held in his hand. He immediately reached for the remote and pressed a random number. Shouts of joy boomed from the TV screen and a man was shown jumping all around the screen with fists punching the air. He looked up at the new presence and smiled at her. "That man just won USD1 million. All from answering a questionnaire. Is that not remarkable?"

The woman sat on the edge of the leather sofa, the edge of the maroon nightgown that she wore rode just a little higher up her smooth thighs. Sorescu stole a hungry look at her – five years of marriage had done nothing, nothing at all to quench his desire.

"Now why would you watch a silly programme where people win less money than you make every day?" she said softly as she gently pried the remote control out of his hands and switched back to the news.

He took her hand in his and kissed her slender, graceful fingers that could tinkle their way effortlessly across the piano and stir exquisite ecstasy with only a brush against bare skin. "There was some horrible, horrible news, that is all, love."

She gazed at him, her grey eyes stormy as the sleet pounding on the window outside. "Oh? And what is it?"

He laughed. "It is nothing that you should know. Nothing important."

Suddenly she grew cold and she retrieved her hand from him. "Very well then, Mikhail. If even after five years of marriage you still doubt my strength and integrity, I should think that I have wasted my time and love on you."

Sorescu's pulse skipped a beat as he watched her ease herself off the sofa and walk away. No, if there was one thing he could not bear to lose, it was her. Her. His Emilia. The love of his life. He could lose his credit cards, his grand mansions, even his hands, but not his Emilia.

He leapt off the sofa and caught her wrist just in time. "Wait! No, don't go!" He instantly wrapped his arms around her waist and dropped loving kisses along her neck and shoulder. "I am sorry," he said humbly. "We should not be fighting over some silly piece of news, should we?" When there was still no response for her, he blurted out the news. "There were people found dead in a river, that is all."

"Six of them?"

His eyebrows rose. "My love, how did you – "

She turned around, and he was glad to see the gentlest of smiles on her face. "Husband, you must be a great oaf to think that I do not know of _that_ aspect of your business. After all, have you not left me with your accounts to manage? Do you think that I do not know what the miscellaneous expenses stand for? But of course," those cunning fingers fingered the lapel of his silk bathrobe, "I understand that those are necessary sacrifices. And I know too that you have left the six under Grigor's charge. I am only curious as to know why they are so special." She tilted her head and pouted. "You only leave the most important and sensitive ones to him."

He sighed in submission. He was only too happy to win back her favour. "They are sensitive, all right: politically sensitive. They are MI6 agents, love. Secret agents from the British government who have been sent to spy on _us_."

Her eyes widened and her fingers clutched his bathrobe tightly. Sorescu nodded gravely. "Yes, I am afraid they were very close to uncovering it all: our trade, our connections, our plan. But not too worry, my dear, Grigor reckons that he has gotten the most of them. He is not sure still of their real number, but he believes there is at least one or two more. It took him almost three months to track all of them down. Three months! Is that not long, I ask you? But that is because they were scattered all over Romania, and Hungary and all of East Europe. There was one that he found in Poland, which could only mean that they may have found our operations there." He shook his head. "But Grigor also thinks that they may not have relayed their information back to their headquarters. He found them too quickly for – my love, you are pale. Are you all right?"

She jerked to her senses, and realising that she had been literally pulling his bathrobe lapel all the way down to his stomach, she let it go at once. "I am sorry. It is just that – I am shocked that they have managed to dig so deep in."

Sorescu cupped her lovely face in his hands. By God, she was beautiful – if Aphrodite were still alive in this century, his Emilia would be a spitting image of her. He could not imagine a woman better endowed than her. She was perfection itself.

"Love, it will be all right. We will be safe. You'll see. I will do anything to keep us safe. I promise."

Her blue eyes, stormy as the sleet outside, met his and suddenly she leaned forward and gave him a full kiss on his lips. He simply melted in her warmth – as sweet as honey and tempting as chocolate. When the kiss ended, she said to him again, this time her voice husky: "Anything?"

He smiled at her, his most earnest smile. "Anything."

* * *

"Six agents, sir; not one, or two, or three, but twice that number: _six_. Do you know what this means?"

The very last thing that James Bond had expected was to tolerate another tempestuous morning in M's office was to answer for a mistake, a slip-up, that was not associated to him at all. Did the woman expect him to know everything? He shook his head regretfully. And just as he was having a rather pleasant holiday in Brighton, too.

Unfortunately, M caught that shaking of head and not only misunderstood it, but in fact, manipulated it to kill what good mood that he had left. "Well sir, if you don't know then I shall tell you – the worst; I repeat; the worst ever massacre of MI6 agents that has ever happened when the office is in my charge! Worst, I tell you – the most gruesome!"

"It could have gotten worse," he offered lamely.

"Well I don't see how," she shot back, her beady black eyes glinting with malice.

"So where do I come in?" he asked, in order to cut a long story short. He had never seen M so appalled and outraged before; and while it was sort of a treat to see her so different from her usual, cold self; but he had sense enough to know that once a woman is frustrated and starts ranting, she must be stopped at once or he will never hear the end of it.

M drew a deep breath and strode back to her desk, which, for once, was in a wonderful disarray, and picked up a green folder so tacky of colour that he couldn't believe that it was there. But reality was reality and he accepted the file from her without so much as a harrumph.

"The Drakepoint Operation," began M as he had scanned the folder for about 10 seconds, "now in its seven year in motion, is an operation aimed to ensure that the government's interests in the East European countries are protected. To this objective, 7 MI6 agents, some of the most trained and skilled we have ever recruited, have been assigned to the Operation and stationed in various posts throughout the region. Skip to the pages of the agents' details."

Bond did as told, and read quickly through the profiles of the Drakepoint agents. They were, indeed as M said, illustrious agents – ex-members of this and that, with affiliations to put himself to shame, but out of these sterling seven, six had been killed. _Which ones_, he wondered, _and how could they have been murdered so? They are MI6 agents, for God's sake_.

"The only surviving agent of the Operation is Evelyn Foster, go to page 15. She is stationed in Bucharest, Romania and the last official contact we have had with her was 5 years ago. So even if she has any valuable information at all, we wouldn't know, but one would have to be an utter mule to not uncover anything in a position like hers."

Bond hardly listened to all the jazz that M was trumpeting about her. The photo of the woman on the paper before him was casting a sure and effective spell at him. He could look at this picture for hours upon hours and not get tired of it – he never thought that he could find a beautiful woman that was, well, _beautiful_, for he had had his share of gorgeous women. This Foster woman was different. She was striking, alluring, and captivating, even on paper and unsmiling. High cheekbones; full, luscious lips; smooth, pale skin – everything spelt pretty much normal, but they were all arranged in a way that they stood out. He wondered how she would look like face to face – would her beauty overwhelm even him?

No, he thought as he gritted his teeth, never again after her. He had resolved not to fall for another woman after the bloody mess that was Vesper Lynd. And he was determined to keep that resolve for the sake of his sanity.

"Bond? Did you bloody listen to what I have said to you?"

He gave a little start and cleared his throat. "Yes?"

M clicked her tongue in impatience. "I want you to travel to Bucharest to meet her. Though we haven't heard from her in almost half a decade, unfortunately she is considered a leading fashion icon, drawing comparison to Mrs. Beckham and even the current Mrs. Sarkozy herself. And if that is not enough publicity, she has recently become the patron of a Romanian charity organisation called Homes for Everyone that aims to provide shelters and permanent, low-cost houses to the homeless people of Romania, but I suspect that will be growing soon to include the whole of East Europe."

He frowned. "Not what I'd call the most effective undercover strategy. And how do you know all that?"

M's delicate eyebrows rose ever so slightly. "My dear Bond, if you'd ever bothered to read the tabloids once in a while, you'd be surprised at how much information you get from all that hot air. Sometimes, Bond, people are blind to the things in front of them. I believe she has gotten the best possible cover for herself. Under the scrutiny of the press, she is the last person to be suspected as an MI6 agent."

Bond let out a snort. "And I believe she is married to someone of some importance to deserve that much of coverage and gossip?"

M turned slightly pink. "Really, Bond! I do not gossip, least of all with Moneypenny."

He merely smiled. Mysteriously.

With a huff, she returned to the matter at hand. "She's masquerading as Emiliana Sorescu, wife of hotel and real estate tycoon Mikhail Sorescu."

"And who the hell is that?"

"That, Bond, is exactly what you need to find out, apart from the fact that Sorescu is a filthy wealthy man with five large estates, fifteen hotel chains all over Europe with three in the United States, twenty gourmet restaurant outlets, just about every single tenement there is in Bucharest and beyond, and powerful chums all over East Europe, including people in embassies and governments. Also, I want you to get in touch with Foster and her operation. Should she be in any danger whatsoever, get her out and back here, to London. It will be a most delicate extraction. I trust that you know what to do. If needed, you are, of course, authorised to take the necessary action."

The last sentence sent an ominous chill down Bond's spine, and it was helped somewhat by M's cold and mirthless glare. He looked again at Foster's face, wondering what the hell was in store for him in Romania.

* * *


	2. Breaking and Entering

Author's note: Thank you VERY much for the reviews for the last chapter! Keep the reviews coming in… I have a feeling they're related to the high levels in my writing enthusiasm.  If you have any opinions of this story don't just 'favourite' it: turn it into a review! It will make me VERY happy! Thank you and on with the story!

**Chapter 2: Breaking and Entering**

There was a sort of homeliness to small, country libraries that Bond had always liked. And he'd always thought that the hasty addition of at least five computers with monitors the size of televisions from the 90's at the back, charming. It was almost six o'clock and he was the only one in the library, apart from the portly librarian, who sat at her desk wishing desperately that he would vacate his spot from the computer and allow her to return home for dinner.

The library door creaked open. Despite his discretion, he turned to see who it was. He looked at his wristwatch as Joel Woodwick approached him. "Oh dear, is it six already?"

Woodwick took the empty spot next to him. "Never knew you were one for old-fashioned computers. Given your nature of work right now, one would expect you to own a laptop at least."

Bond smiled. "Left it in the office." Joel Woodwick was one of the few people he kept from his childhood days. They'd graduated together from Eton and the Naval Academy together. Their paths split after a short stint in military service; Woodwick left and opened a cigar business while Bond tried his luck with the MI6 (of which he felt that Woodwick did not need to know). Despite their irregular and impossible schedules, they still managed to keep in touch and in true British schoolboy spirit, holidayed together whenever possible.

Woodwick peered at the monitor. "And I certainly never expected you to be interested in celebrities."

Bond arched an eyebrow. "Why would you call Mikhail Sorescu a celebrity? He doesn't act or sing."

"My dear James," said Woodwick with a laugh, "with the kind of money that he has, he's entitled to be one. It's his wife though that's more interesting, I think. Famous just for marrying him. That should make for a riveting case study. Speaking of which," he looked at Bond, "why the sudden call to London?"

Bond cleared his throat. "Work."

"A call from your boss and suddenly you're looking up Mikhail Sorescu? Trust me, Bond, in all my dealings in the twisted world of business I've yet to meet an odder oddball than you. Are you sure you're working for a pharmaceutical company?"

Bond attempted a smile. "Why would I lie to you, Woodwick?" After a short laugh shared by both men, an idea occurred to him. "Say, Woodwick, have you ever dealt with this Sorescu fellow? I mean, your name hardly goes unnoticed when it comes to British cigars."

Woodwick grinned widely, seeming to Bond to assume the arrogant businessman that he was most of the time. "Of course I have. Without me, his fine and dandy VIPs won't get the complete treatment they deserve. The Goldman range, that's what I call them: made of the most refined tobacco you'll ever find, and they even come with a classy gold band at the end of each – but no, I shan't bore you with all these details, I know that you hate listening to product specifications."

"How important are you to Sorescu?" It was a risky question that might give away his motives, or maybe risk instigating a quarrel, but Bond had to try it, with hopes that Woodwick's self-satisfaction would take it up.

"That's the thing, James – I never like him very well; we businessmen never do genuinely like each other, even when we're not competing, but we're very courteous people. And I never knew one more courteous than Mikhail Sorescu. He's got this big celebration coming up. It's the tenth anniversary of his swankiest hotel in East Europe: the Napoleon. And he's got every intention of making it the biggest and grandest anniversary ever celebrated. He's planned a month's worth of special events in the hotel, and he's invited all his business partners to stay in the exclusive suites and 'join him in celebrating a remarkable achievement in the hotel and real estate business'. How about that, eh?"

"Well he certainly knows how to make and keep people happy," commented Bond wryly. "Anyone can, for that matter, what with the amount of money he makes every week. Are you going for that celebration of his?"

"Of course I will!" exclaimed Woodwick. "Free accommodation, champagne and caviar, the number of single female socialites that will attend the balls and galas in store for me: you bet your knickers I'll be going. It's _the_ party of the year and I've been invited. I'll be an idiot to refuse."

Bond shook his head with regret. "It's a real shame then, that I'll be missing out on all that. All my holidays have been confined to Brighton and the Isle of Wight. I should really like to be travelling to a foreign country for a real holiday soon."

"Is that so? Well then, why didn't you say so earlier?" Woodwick's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "I can easily get you to come along with me to Bucharest."

Bond cast a doubtful eye on him, but in his mind there was no doubt at all. The bait now lay dangling in front of Woodwick the fish. "Are you sure about that? I'll probably be getting in your way, you know, I don't share your enthusiasm for partying and socialising."

"James, did you know that you did a serious mistake for turning to accountancy as a career option? I remember you standing up for yourself in front of the bullies and running for Head Boy back in Eton. Look what your job reduced you to: a social shellfish. That won't do at all. You're coming with me to Romania for a little fun and games and when you return to London you'll be a proper social butterfly. Do you hear that, James?"

He couldn't resist a smile. He remembered when Woodwick was a little twit and kept getting pummelled for keeping his pennies to himself. "But will Sorescu mind? I am of no profit to him, I afraid."

"Bullshit, James. He's invited Paris Hilton as well, for God's sakes. He wouldn't mind an extra addition to the grand birthday bash he's throwing for his hotel. I'll call him first thing tomorrow morning."

"All right, but can you do me a favour?" Bond paused for a moment. "Can you tell him that my name is David Sandborn and not James Bond?"

Woodwick frowned. "Why?"

"Just for the heck of it."

"Oh, all right. If I hadn't spent all those months manning the battle stations with you I wouldn't consider doing it at all."

* * *

"Yes, yes, of course. I am sure that I will be pleased to meet your friend. He sounds like a good, amiable person," said Mikhail Sorescu into the receiver, wearing a patient smile on his face. He nodded to himself as he wrote the name of that person down. "D-A-V-I-D S-A-N-D-B-O-R-N, is it? And he is with J. Parkerson Pharmaceuticals? Well I'll note that down. No, no, it is no trouble at all. It is just that I am afraid – oh, if that is the case – well okay, see you next week." The smile remained fixed on his face until the receiver was replaced, then he groaned loudly.

"What is the matter?" asked his wife from her very own desk, just a little way off from his. They were in his private study, which also served as his office, all located conveniently in their penthouse suite in the Napoleon, which also conveniently belonged to him.

"The fifteenth person to ask for an extra room for his 'friend'," spat Sorescu out as he got up to stretch his legs. "Another person taking advantage of my kindness. At this rate I will not be surprised if everyone catches wind of this and start adding distant cousins and ex-classmates to their tag-along lists."

"Who is it this time?"

"Joel Woodwick from Redshield Cigars. The person who supplies us with those nice, quality British cigars. Do you remember him? No, of course you don't. That arrogant man, all hot air and helium. Just like almost everyone we know. He is bringing a friend, an accountant with a J. Parkerson Pharmaceuticals named David Sandborn." He gestured at his wife's laptop. "Run a search on him will you?"

"Of course," she replied meekly. She resisted an impatient huff. By undertaking the duties of his personal auditor, she had also become his private digital investigator, and the extra workload didn't please her. It meant less opportunities to go shopping with her friends, and she wasn't paid for it either.

_What the hell are you thinking of, Evelyn?_ she scolded herself. _Remind yourself for the millionth time: you are an M16 agent, and you've got no business thinking like a real socialite. Really. When did you become so vain?_

"Found him," she announced. She had hacked into the J. Parkerson Pharmaceuticals database and looked him up. The face on his employee profile was a strong one, with well-defined planes and an intense look about him. Her husband took a look at the picture and nodded thoughtfully. "He is a man who means business," he said to himself, and not a second later he turned away.

But she couldn't, not just yet. There was something resolutely amiss about David Sandborn. There were no gaping holes in his profile, but there was one small anomaly. Sorescu was usually a careful man, but he gave no regard to David Sandborn's details, and thus missed this error.

David Sandborn became a Senior Accountant with the company in 2006. However, despite the position, there was no ACCA certification in his educational background, which would mean that he was not a chartered accountant.

And how on earth did an unchartered accountant get himself hired at all?

* * *

"Bond, are you absolutely sure about this?"

He ran a hand through his hair as he sighed. Heavily, so that M would get his point. He sauntered over to the hotel balcony and looked out at the wide expanse of English sea spread out before him, the waters as restless as his heart. "Yes. He's just confirmed that I'm welcome at the gala-festival-whatever as a guest."

"And you trust this man, Joel Woodwick?" came her edgy, crisp voice over the phone.

"I do," he replied, after a moments' pause.

"Well I can't do anything more, I suppose, than to wish you luck. And to remind you of what happened the last time you trusted _someone_."

The muscles around his jaw tightened. "I don't need to be reminded of Vesper Lynd. She's dead. Out of sight, out of mind."

"But is she out of your heart?" she replied tartly. "Bond, I think I know you quite well. You use your brains when you need to get something to function but when you make decisions you go by your guts. And heart. Those are the worst attributes a double-O agent can have. When something gets on your nerves, they stay there. You don't let go easily, and that is, quite frankly, dangerous."

Bond smiled. "But that was what made me stand out, wasn't it? I'm not some killing machine for the government, but a living, breathing human who can kill and think – and have feelings."

"For goodness's sake Bond, I didn't hire you for your flaws." She cleared her throat. "But this isn't about you. May I remind you again that you're supposed to communicate with Foster, find out what she knows, and bring the information back here to us. You are under no orders to interfere with any other operation, regardless on which side of the law it is, do you understand me? I don't want to come to work only to be regaled about how a stupid, reckless MI6 agent blew up the most luxurious hotel in East Europe. I'm telling you I won't tolerate that sort of bloody nonsense. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes ma'am," replied Bond. He allowed himself a scoff as he hung up. Follow orders given by M iota by iota?

Yeah, right.

* * *


	3. Through the Looking Glass

Author's note: Whew! Haven't updated in a long, long while… hope this chapter is all right. And do forgive me for the retarded title. Couldn't think of anything better – ARGH!

**Chapter 3: Through the Looking Glass**

Sorescu adjusted his gold tie, nudging it slightly with a forefinger to the centre. He took a step back to see how it looked. But no, too much to the right. He clicked his tongue and prodded it again, then leaned back a bit to see how his reflection looked.

Still not right.

The lapels of his coat were ironed to perfection, the cutting sharp and its sleeves ended nicely above the sleeves of his white silk blouse. The pants ended precisely above his polished Armani leather patent shoes and accentuated his solidly-built frame. Sorescu was grateful for the way his 53-year-old body was holding up: it looked as well-proportioned and athletic as it did when he had first shook The Crowbar's hand and pocketed his first gun.

All was perfect but for the but the damn tie.

"Let me do it." Sorescu let his hands fall to his side as those of his wife reached around his neck, loosened the tie and retied it. As she did so, he smiled to himself. They were the picture of domestic perfection, he thought to himself, feeling a surge of pride well up in his heart. All they lacked were children.

"What are you smiling about?" she asked, looking up at him and with a gentle smile of her own. He sighed and clasped his hand over hers. "I am happy. And I hope that you are too."

She scoffed playfully as she slipped her hand out of his grasp and continued to adjust his tie. "What are you talking about, Mikhail? Of course I'm happy."

"Do you know what I'd like?" he said wistfully. "Children, an heir for the family business, then I shall willingly and gladly die."

He felt the movements of her hand become tense when she moved them to adjust his collar. "Oh, I just remembered," she said, her voice sounding hollow, "Dimir, the fellow from Guest Relations, informed me a while ago that – "

"Do not change the subject," he snapped. An inexplicable surge of anger raged through his chest so abruptly that she froze. "Five years, Emilia – I have waited for five years for a child. Don't you ever wish to have one to play with on your lap? Don't you ever want one of your own to love? I have seen you with the children of minister Popescu – you will make an excellent mother. Why are you so reluctant to bear me my children?"

The expression on her face was cold and indecipherable. He felt the urge to hit her, humble her, strip away the layers of that tough, shameless skin and strike her where it hurt her the most. She sensed the tautness in his muscles, noticed how tightly his fists were clenched, but she did nothing but maintained her cool demeanour. She knew he wouldn't hit her because she was next to everything to him. And because they would be meeting the VIP guests shortly, after which was the brunch and the official launch of the anniversary week. Mikhail had a reputation to keep and a Western European venture at stake.

No, he wouldn't hit her, and they both knew it.

So he took a deep breath and turned to face the mirror again. He roughly yanked one loose end of the tie, ripping it lose, and threw it on the floor. He did not turn around, but he could see from the reflection on the mirror that she merely turned away without so much as a whimper or an apology. His throat caught.

Sometimes he wondered if she had ever loved him at all.

* * *

The helicopter took a sudden dip in the air, launching its passengers forward. Bond's hand shot out just in time to grip the hand-rest above his seat. Joel Woodwick, who sat beside him but, unlike him, had the sense to fasten his seatbelt, laughed. Bond shot him a glare.

"I hope your pilot knows what he's doing. That was nothing to laugh about."

"Come on, James, relax! We're on holiday here. You've been on edge ever since we touched down at the airport. You're about to experience some of the best weeks in your life and you're as sour as pickles. Do try to loosen up, if not for your own sake, then for mine. I don't want my tag-along to be an utter spoilsport. I'll look bad in front of Sorescu. Besides, Kaufferman the pilot has been with me for AGES, and I know his style. He likes to take a dip every now and then for the adrenaline rush, so I let him," said Woodwick with a grin.

Bond merely stared at him. "You're mad to hire him."

"Oh yes, I believe so. But he's good, Kaufferman, I tell you. Do you know that there was a time when I – "

Bond paid no attention to another of Woodwick's wonderful and deliciously close escapades, his concentration inadvertently switched to the rhythmic hum of the rotor blades. He reviewed his mission for the millionth time: somehow get to Emiliana Sorescu aka Evelyn Foster and ask what she had learnt during her time as a wife to one of the wealthiest men in Europe. And the conspiracy that surrounded the six murdered agents. From the pattern, she was obviously the next victim. Bond wasn't in the mood to play bodyguard; M certainly didn't gave him orders of that sort.

"James, are you listening?"

Bond managed a smile. "No."

Woodwick sighed. "Very well, James. I get you all the way to Romania and this is how you repay me!" Thankfully they had arrived at the helipad on the rooftop of the hotel. But even after the helicopter had landed, Woodwick still wasn't done talking. Or rather, shouting. "In exchange for a marvelous holiday, all I ask is that you put up with my yob. Is that so hard to do? Do you know that no one ever listens to me unless I talk about cigars? It's so boring!"

"You sound like a sexually frustrated woman," commented Bond wryly as a man dressed in crisp suit approached them.

"That's because I am – wait, what am I talking? I'm not sexually frustrated! Just emotionally deprived!"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Woodwick, Mr. Sandborn," said the man as he shook the hands of both men. "Did you have a pleasant flight?" Bond was intrigued. He had all the courtesies of a hospitality officer, and yet he had a heavy built and a stern set of jaws. This was a man more suited to fistfights than reception. Sorescu took no chances with anyone.

"Are we late? The pilot of my jet was most incompetent, you know, Mr. Hospitality, he caused us to be behind schedule for nearly an hour with his stupid safety checks," said Woodwick.

"No sir, you're just in time for the official launch of Anniversary Week. It begins in fifteen minutes."

"What about food?"

"Brunch is served there as well, sir."

"Fantastic!" yelled Woodwick even as they entered the small rooftop lobby which contained the elevators. "I'm hankering for a mouth and eyeful, aren't you, James?"

The man stared at Bond. "It's David," muttered Bond.

"Oh right! Of course you are," Woodwick grinned apologetically at the officer. "Mixed him up with his twin, James. They both look bloody alike, you know." All three men laughed weakly, but Bond knew that what looked like a small slip for Woodwick translated into a big gaping hole for the officer, who was probably sent to observe him, the last minute baggage. He didn't say anything more other than handing them their keycards and assuring them that their luggage would arrive at their respective suites safely and bid them a good day.

Once they were safey inside the elevator, Woodwick turned to him, but before he could speak, Bond silenced him with cool glare. The other man took the hint. As a result, the elevator ride to the grand ballroom was thankfully silent.

* * *

Evelyn took her seat on the immaculate banquet chair, complete with green trimmings and a large gold ribbon at the back. She was pleased with the way the centre piece had been arranged exactly to her precisions: white roses laced with lavender in a squat glass vase that shone in the sunlight. She fingered the gold-trimmed napkins folded in the shape of a swan and then the cool surface of the wine glass.

Perfect.

A hand tapped her back and she jumped, looking up. It was Beatrix Popescu, the elegant and rather high-nosed wife of Defense Minister Popescu. She wore several strands of pearls that were so long they clacked as she moved. Evelyn wondered why she hadn't heard her coming at all.

Her senses and reflexes were being dulled, that was all, from doing nothing other than shopping, chatting with socialites and deciding which trimming suited the center piece. She resisted a dry and frustrated laugh.

"I must say, my dear Emiliana, what a wonderful job you've done for the ballroom. It all looks so charming!" said Beatrix Popescu, as they exchanged kisses on the cheek. She took the seat next to her and immediately let out a sigh of appreciation. "The roses are so lovely. I've always argued that they will never go out of fashion but no one ever listens. I do declare that today is their comeback as timeless classics."

"Thank you, Beatrix. I've always thought the same," Evelyn replied with a smile. The waiter arrived and presented the wine list. After they had made their choices and returned the wine list to the waiter, Beatrix exclaimed again, "An excellent wine list, my dear. Pinot Gris is so perfect for a delightful, simple brunch like this. Who knew you have so keen an eye for fine wine?"

_Is this what I've become good for? Flower arrangements and wine?_ she wondered to herself as she sipped her glass of wine. Her eyes wandered to the massive double doors that led into the ballroom, which itself was enormous and had a vaulted roof for a ceiling, from which hung about 50 chandeliers that glittered like gold coins. As Beatrix chattered away about the virtues of Wagner, Evelyn busied herself with people-watching. She spotted her husband, Sorescu near the entrance with a glass of red wine in his hands, talking and laughing with a group of men she recognized as his 'business associates'. She watched them. They were normal businessmen who dealt with real estate, beer and even fresh produce, but she knew that they were also the main men in the underworld that Mikhail Sorescu lorded over together with The Crowbar.

But what use was that information if she had no way of giving it to MI6? Even though Sorescu claimed that he loved her and trusted her the most, there were little signs of that trust he claimed he had for her. She knew that in her cell phone was embedded a tracking device, there were bugs even in their own suite and her wardrobe, and every time she went out, his men would be disguised as one of the paparazzi that photographed her no matter where she went.

Then she saw him.

He strode through the doors with the air of a man on a mission. Her reflexes may have been dulled, but not her instinct. Immediately, he was pulled to one side and introduced to Sorescu by a man she recognized as Joel Woodwick of Goldman Cigars. She watched as Sorescu smiled politely and spoke something trivial that incurred laughs from everyone in the circle. Then Sandborn and Woodwick moved to find empty spots for themselves.

His eyes met hers, and Evelyn had an odd feeling that he somehow knew her. There was a knowing look in his eyes. She kept her ground and sipped her wine as if nothing was wrong. She tried to reassure herself. She was a celebrity in these parts after all, so it was normal that people recognized her. Perfectly normal. He tilted his head as if it was a small, polite yet understanding nod before moving away.

* * *

It was her, Evelyn Foster.

She was, like all the famous, good-looking personalities, more good-looking in person than in the tabloids. Her eyes were an intense, deep blue and Bond could feel shivers running down his spine. This was not a woman to be trifled with. He knew that she knew him, the same way the hospitality officer knew his name. Surely, being the wife of an influential and powerful man as Sorescu, she had equal access to that kind of information.

He gave her a little nod. A sign of acknowledgment among agents, even if she didn't know he was one.

"I see you've seen her," said Woodwick, nudging him with a wink. Bond quickly pulled away. "Enchanting, isn't she? Those eyes! And those legs, if you've the chance to see them. I was with them on a yachting thing and she was wearing one of those old-fashioned Chanel swimsuits – " he let out a whistle as they sat on some ornately decorated banquet chairs. "Enough said."

"You make her sound like one of your many dirty little girlfriends," said Bond. He glanced back at Foster, who was joined by Sorescu and his gang of 'chums'. They all looked like simple men, save for Sorescu, who had the true airs of a rich and powerful gentleman. As soon as Sorescu sat, Foster took his hand in hers as she spoke to him in a personal and private matter. Bond tensed, for a moment it felt as if his identity was about to be given away, but he reminded himself that she could not have known about him. Eventually he smiled and kissed her. Bond tore his eyes away from them. He never liked watching couples in action.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully enough with few to mention: Sorescu gave a generic speech on how much he appreciated everyone's presence and how much hardwork he had poured into it, Woodwick held court at their table and thus befriended everyone (and so did Bond, unavoidably, he sat through it all with polite smiles, short sentences and wine) and Eurovision and Romanian singers took centrestage. Only one thing registered in his mind, and it was Evelyn Foster. Every now and then he watched her, kept her in his sight as he pondered how he could speak to her without being seen by Sorescu, or any of his men for that matter.

It only took one sip of wine and a morsel of bass. Bond turned to look at her and she was gone from her seat. His eyes quickly caught a flash of her white silk frock as it disappeared through the entrance. He wiped his mouth hastily with his napkin and threw it down. "Can I borrow a smoke, Woodwick?" he asked his friend quietly.

"Of course. But I didn't know that you smoke," replied Woodwick as he handed him a box of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. Even he was too prudent to smoke his own cigars. Bond merely smiled and patted him on the back in thanks.

Bond strode rapidly out of the ballroom. The dimly lit corridor outside was littered with a few guests lounging on the tastefully arranged chaise lounges, but Bond made a hunch that she had gone to the ladies. There was a mini smoking lounge outside the toilets, and it wasn't only men who came out for a breather. Bond leaned against the wall beside one of them and lit up his cigarette. He usually didn't smoke, but he could use one now both professionally and personally.

A few minutes later the door to the ladies swung open and out came Foster. Bond took a few moments to admire the graceful sway of her hips as she walked and the confident square of her slender shoulders before he timed and made his move. He stubbed out his cigarette and walked calmly into her path and, as calculated, bumped into her and made her drop her purse and shawl.

"Sorry," he muttered as they both knelt to pick them up. She shook her head. "It's all right," she replied. Before she could straighten up again, he grasped her wrist. "I know who you are," he said in a low voice.

She looked at him directly, surprise clearly struggling not show in her expression. "Of course you do," she said seconds later with a funny smile. "You must be one of Mikhail's business associates."

He smiled as well, playing the well-mannered gentleman. "I don't do business with Mr. Sorescu directly. But I'll be direct here. I know that you're Evelyn Foster and that you work for M."

She froze, but her smile was still fixed on her face. "And who are you then if you're not David Sandborn?"

"I'm Bond. James Bond. I'm working for MI6 as well. We need to talk."

* * *

**Dun dun dun! Is it good? You tell me! :D**


	4. Pouring Gasoline

**Author's note: Hey there!! And the overkill of exclamation marks were necessary because I am so excited to be able to get my creative juices flowing again! It was hard for me to write this chapter. Now that the Quantum of Solace trailers are out, I've been trying to crack out some good action scenes and a substantial plot so the result was an overdue chapter. I'm guessing there might be a few more chapters to go before any action can come out, but if you have any, ANY ideas for a great action scene - don't hesitate to PM me 'cos I need them! So when you're done reading, you know what to do - REVIEW!! (Evil laugh)**

**Chapter 4: Pouring Gasoline**

Evelyn's heart stopped the moment he mentioned 'M'. A thousand questions ran through her mind: why did MI6 send another agent out to her station? Were they pulling her out of the operation? Most importantly: was he friend or foe? How was she to know for sure if he was the real deal? But she gathered her thoughts. She must be as cool and collected as possible, that was the way to do it, regardless on which side this James Bond belonged to.

She got to her feet with a graceful smile and so did he. "Come, Mr. Sandborn, and we'll talk at another place," she said. She was well aware of not only the pairs of human eyes fixed upon her but also the electronic ones. In Sorescu's kingdom, there was no way to escape being watched.

She kept her walk calm and steady and her voice low as she led him back to the grand ballroom. "Why are you here?" she asked.

"Six Drakepoint agents are dead. Are you aware of it?"

She drew a sharp breath as she readjusted her shawl. "Yes," she said quietly. "It was Sorescu who got them killed."

He halted. "Then you know that your life is in danger, what with you being in such close proximity to him. Has he suspected anything?"

"No, he loves me completely, so he keeps declaring every day, but he doesn't trust me. Not completely, I can tell. I know most of his 'business', he lets me keep record of his accounts. But there's something else he's been working on, something so secret and important that he can't tell me."

Bond allowed himself a crooked smile. "Not even to his wife of five years?"

She smiled questioningly back. "Isn't it the general rule that men don't share everything with their wives?"

"Only a married man would know that. And I'm not married."

"But surely you've been in love before?"

At that moment, his expression to one of stone, and he looked away at once. Evelyn knew she had touched a nerve. This was a man who had had his fingers burnt by either unrequited or betrayed love. A man who could no longer find space in his heart for a woman's love, no matter how deep and undivided. A man could be as friendly and good-natured as he could be cold and cruel. She cleared her throat. "Sorry," she said, and he merely shook his head.

She resumed talking. "He's booked some of his 'very good friends' to stay in the hotel for the whole week and he's got private meetings scheduled with them every day. Sadly, I don't think I'm invited. He never lets me know the nature of his dealings with them. But I do know this much. They're not ordinary men. They're not too wealthy, but they are influential. They've all got a common political vision and armies of men to back them up."

"Gangsters?"

"More like modern-day warlords," she replied with a dry smile. "Whoever stands in their way shall stand no more. That sort of thing. They're all hiding behind legitimate businesses of course, but there are drugs, prostitution and money laundering at play."

"What about Sorescu?" asked Bond. "What does he play with?"

"The safest and cleanest: real estate," she said with a laugh. "He's practically landlord of the whole city, both directly and indirectly. His men send other men down to catch those that don't pay the rent on time. And there are the hotels, of course. And the restaurants." Her eyes drifted to a troubled gaze. "They're planning something," she said as she looked directly at him. "When I was in the ballroom with them I could hear them mumbling. Something about delivering the change that they want, that people want. That change is good, good for them, and good for all." Even as she said it, she experienced the same shivers that ran down her back the moment she heard those words at the table. Bond's expression, however, did not change.

"Anyhow," she continued, "they've surrounded themselves with regional politicians, mostly left-wing ones except for Defense Minister Popescu, who is, of course, with the current administration. But he's known to have spoken openly against the government. His policies and theirs don't go down well with each other. As a result, the government cut down on his military funds recently and he's not happy about it. But he's a patriot, he is. He just loves his country a little too much."

"So it's a revolution? A military coup? A political upstage?"

She looked away with a sigh. She didn't know and he got the message.

"How do I get in?"

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Sorry?"

"You said that Sorescu was planning something with his friends. I want to know what it is, if it's big, bad and dirty."

"So how do you plan to do that? Crash in on their meetings? You're supposed to be an accountant, for God's sake. He won't even waste his time talking to you."

"Oh, he will. Just let me make a phone call first."

* * *

"What? Are you insane?" hissed M into the receiver. Fortunately, she was alone in her office and there was no one to witness the display of severe shock on her face, which was slowly contorting in fury. She jabbed a button on the phone and instantly Bond's voice echoed within the four walls of her personal professional space.

"Unfortunately, ma'am, I'm in a state of perfect mental health," he remarked. M hated the hint of self-confidence in his voice. She could almost imagine the smirk on his face as he said that, the kind of smirk that made people want to hurt him. Bad.

"You call using the name of the government in order to play in whatever tournament that Sorescu is organising, sane? Did you break your moral compass in the process of liaising with Foster?" M couldn't resist a smirk of her own. "You can never say no to beautiful women, do you, Bond?"

"It's not about her," he replied, his voice suddenly stony. "I'm doing this for my country. This is the surefire way to get in. A personal confirmation from the high-ranking government official who sent me on this mission is just the thing to get Sorescu to pay attention."

She sighed tiredly, feeling the anger dissipate from her jaws. "Very well, Bond, we'll draft a letter and fax it over by tonight."

"That's not quick enough. I'll call you and put you on speaker phone when the time's come."

"What?" she exclaimed. "Then what the hell am I supposed to say?"

"Just say that you're my superior and you sent me to liaise with the Romanian government. The British government is interested in investing money with the Ministry of Defense, having heard of the unfortunate snip in their budget, but we're only going to invest a reasonable amount for a good reason, of course."

"How clever of you, Bond," she replied with as much sarcasm as she could muster, "Tell me, has it ever crossed your mind that a businessman like Sorescu will dismiss that sort of excuse, especially when you're not supposed to know about what he's been up to?"

"Sorry, my remiss. I'll pitch it to Popescu straight then. He'll pass it on to Sorescu for sure."

"Fine. And what am I expected to hear in return?"

"From what I've heard, a revolution or rebellion of sorts."

"You mean Sorescu's on a reformation mission? How is he going to do that?"

"You said it yourself, he's got chums all over Europe. And he's close to the Minister of Defense. It's not impossible if he's got political and military backing as well as legal immunity."

M massaged her temple. She smelt danger. Danger in the form of James Bond. "Listen to me, Bond. I'll play pretend along with you but I'm having the conversation recorded. Once we've managed to get a clear idea of what this is all about, I want you to come back to headquarters."

"What about Foster?"

M's lips tightened. "She's to stay, or they'll be on their toes and everyone's life will be hell, including yours. Did I make myself clear enough to not be misunderstood, Bond? If you do anything to jeopardise this mission, I swear I'll – "

He hung up on her.

* * *

Sorescu stole another glance at his watch. She had been gone for almost an hour. What was she doing? He paid no attention to the jokes tossed around the table where he sat. He was a bit tired of listening to plain, small talk and compliments about how good the food was, how fine the wine and how entertaining was this performer and that. They were the best of men, no doubt, and who shared his views and aspirations, but for the moment all he wanted to see and talk to and touch was his Emilia.

Then he spotted her face and slender figure entering the ballroom, and his lungs allowed him to breathe again. He smiled with relief as he caught her eye. She smiled back, and he beamed. He always loved it when she smiled; it made him feel so loved and complete. Behind her, however, walked a man whose face he thought he recognised. Wasn't he the last-minute luggage that Woodwick man had brought along with him? What was his name? He wasn't even important enough for Sorescu to remember it.

He noticed that the man was following her, his Emilia, and he felt a sudden seed of anger rising up in him, causing his fists to clench and his jaw to set. He knew he had no reason to doubt her loyalty; he was absolutely sure and confident that she loved him and him alone, but somehow seeing her with another man, even though they were both making their way towards him, made him feel inexplicably jealous. He was handsome, Sorescu noted, in a very disciplined yet lethal way, but Sorescu, who definitely made more money than him, was surely better than him in every way. He studied the way the man walked, confident and professional and yet sharp as a knife. Did Emilia see anything in him that she liked? That she desired after? Was there something in him that he, Sorescu, could not offer? Before he had gotten to know that man, he was already disliking him for an affair that he did not commit with his wife.

But still he held himself together. Sorescu stood and managed a smile when Emilia came and greeted him with a kiss on his cheek. "My dear, where have you been? You could not imagine how worried we all were," said Sorescu to his wife, but his throat was tight. He had meant to sound cool, as if he noticed nothing, but his emotions had gotten the better of him. Sorescu was good at hiding his emotions; it helped him succeed in business and all his dealings, but with Emilia, that skill chose to hide itself away instead. He hated it sometimes, hated that a woman could have so much power over him, but most of the time he merely reveled in her presence, in her love. He would not have it any other way.

"I went to the bathroom," she said with an apologetic smile. "But on my way back I was approached by this man," she nudged her head slightly in the other man's direction. "His name is David Sandborn and he wishes to speak to Minister Popescu."

Both Sorescu and the Defense Minister, who was seated beside him and in the middle of enjoying a glass of wine, looked surprised, especially Popescu. Though he was a man of substantial power, Popescu was not so popular or approachable. And in any case, the day was supposed to belong to Sorescu. And he was aware that everyone at the table was listening. It was humiliating. But Sorescu kept the smile fixed on his face. He would remember this Sandborn's face for a long, long time.

Oh he would.

Popescu merely laughed. "I'm afraid you will have to wait another day, sir. As you can see today is a day of merriment and I plan to enjoy myself with my good friend, Mikhail Sorescu. Congratulate him today and I shall speak to you when my secretary can find the time." He turned back to the rest of the table and Sorescu followed suit, allowing himself to eye Sandborn as he put a hand on Emilia and gently coax her to return to her seat.

But he was not ready to give up just yet. Sandborn took a step forward and said, "I do wish I could do that but I am entrusted with an important mission and aim to accomplish it by the end of this day. My employers cannot wait a day longer."

Popescu allowed himself a smile. "My, my, the younger you get, the more hasty, eh? Who are your employers? If it is that urgent I shall contact them myself the moment I return to the office."

Sorescu clicked his tongue with impatience. This man's persistence was spoiling his mood and his day. He stood once more and looked him in the eye. Sandborn did not flinch, staring at him with equal intent with his cold blue eyes. Sorescu gave him a dry smile. "Come now, you heard Minister Popescu yourself, did you not? He is a busy man and this is a place for good cheer. I am afraid that I shall have to ask you to leave, but do not worry, you will still be allowed to stay on as a guest of Mr. Woodwick. I will even throw in free lifetime membership for our gym and spa facilities. That sounds good, doesn't it, Mr. Sandborn?"

Sandborn nodded amicably and Sorescu's shoulders felt much lighter. "That does sound attractive," said Sandborn pleasantly, "If I were not with the British government I would accept the offer right away."

"The British government?" said Popescu abruptly. Conversation and movement at the table came to a standstill once more as everyone fixed their eyes on Sandborn, who merely nodded and replied, "Yes, Minister Popescu. They are the employers I was talking about. And as you can see, such important and official matters cannot be put off as lightly as you made it to be."

"Yes, yes," replied Popescu, who set his glass of wine down. "You should have said so earlier, sir, and I will gladly make the time. Come, come, sit next to me – you don't mind, do you Beatrix – and we'll talk."

"Thank you, sir," said Sandborn. Sorescu had no choice but to call a waiter to fetch a chair for him, his limbs felt as if they were made of lead as he did so. At least Emiliana offered him some solace by holding his hand when he sat and smiling sympathetically. He drew a deep breath and drank from the radiance of her beauty. It calmed his nerves down at once, so much so that he could even afford a smile at Sandborn as he sat next to him.

"How about some wine and food as well for the man, eh, Mikhail?" said Popescu, and Sorescu obliged him with another call to the waiter. "What would you have, Mr. Sandborn?"

"I'll just have the wine, thanks. I do have a confession to make, though. My name isn't David Sandborn."

"Oh?" said Popescu, raising an eyebrow as both his and Sorescu's eyes met. Sorescu glanced at Emiliana. Had she not made the background check and shown it to him? But his wife's eyes were trained on the other man, and they danced with a strange light. Sorescu suddenly felt uneasy in her presence. Was she – was she hiding something from him?

"Then what _is_ your name?" asked Sorescu dryly.

"Bond," he replied, as the wine arrived and he took the glass in his hand, "James Bond."

* * *

**I've ended two chapters in a row with "Bond, James Bond" and I feel just guilty! But there was no other way... As always, if you have an opinion about what I've written (or even if you decided that you just like it) - REVIEW!! :D**


	5. The Needle in the Haystack

**Author's note: Thanks (and I really mean THANKS!!) for the reviews! Just what I needed to keep the fire going. Still not in the action yet, but the war of words is coming right up, hehe… can't wait to ****write**** M's reaction after this one; I'll have a field day!**

**Disclaimer (can't believe I forgot this!) : Bond, M, MI6 and Romania do not belong to me.**

**Chapter 5: The Needle in the Haystack**

"So, Mister… Bond, is it?" said Popescu as he took one of the warm, buttered buns that were being passed around the table in a basket. "What is it that the British government wants me to know that has to be delivered so discreetly?" Bond allowed himself to crack a smile as he set his wine glass down. He wondered if he should act the bureaucrat or the agent. Beside him, Sorescu was obviously trying his best not to look, or hear, by talking to the other guests seated at the table, but Bond knew that he was all ears.

"We're concerned about the drastic reduction in funds for the Romanian military," said Bond at last, deciding to go with blunt diplomacy, "Since most countries have stepped up in defense in the recent years, Britain deems this is a most unnatural turn of events. At the same time, I'm not ashamed to say that my superior is a huge fan of your policies, sir. Equality in this modern era is something we definitely need. Discrimination must be done away with."

He watched as Popescu nodded amicably, even though he did not look at him, he knew he was getting there. If it wasn't for Foster, he wouldn't have been able to cook up such a delightful lie. Against his resolve to not look Sorescu's way, Bond's head turned to look at Foster, and he saw that her eyebrows were slightly raised.

"And who exactly is this superior of yours?" asked Popescu.

Bond took a deep breath before answering. "She, not he. She goes by the name of M. Her real name is a mystery to me, but her intentions are not. She heads the MI6, thus she has many contacts from all over the world. Money and human resources are easily available to her. She only needs to ask." M can kill him later if she wanted to. For now, he needed to make this lie work.

"She sounds like a very powerful person. Head of MI6, too," said Popescu to himself as he tore a piece of the bun and chewed it thoughtfully. Bond observed him: his black hair was slicked to the back, his black goatee was well-trimmed and the upper button on his collar was unfastened. His physique wasn't exactly fit either. Bond deduced that he was the type of man who had the necessary vision, but not the talent. Popescu was probably one of the lucky bastards whose fortunes either fell accidentally onto his lap or had been rigged for him.

And who had more capability to do so than his close friend, Sorescu?

"So what does the head of MI6 want to do with the Romanian Minister of Defense?" asked Sorescu abruptly. He immediately apologized for butting in what was obviously a private conversation, but Popescu waved his apology away.

"No, no, I've told you before many times, Mikhail, do away with those apologies of yours! How many years have we been the closest of friends and the best of brothers?" said Popescu with a laugh as he turned to Bond, "Mikhail here is the person I trust most in the world. I have never had a reason to doubt him. Therefore, I hope you do not mind including him in our conversation."

"Oh no, not at all," said Bond with a smile for Sorescu. All the better, in fact. "So what does the director of MI6 want, you ask. Plain and simple. Frankly, she believes that you're up to something, sir, something quite radical that's got your government shrinking funds for the army. She also thinks that what you're planning is in line with your beliefs, of which she is highly supportive of, and so she would like to invest in it. That's all." Bond resisted the urge to remain serious. Images of M's face contorted in fury and spewing soundless shrieks from her mouth danced before his mind's eye and he resisted the urge to laugh. Oh, he would have a field day with this, he would.

Popescu smiled and nodded as he sipped some of his wine, but Bond could see the worry in his eyes, as if he wasn't sure of what he had just heard. He was about to further clarify for him when the corner of his eye caught a nod by Sorescu. Then a bespectacled man who had unnaturally broad shoulders and long white hair tied in a ponytail jerked his head the slightest bit. Bond's eyes darted around the table and caught small and quick nods by most of the seated guests. Then it hit him. Popescu was nothing more than a mere puppet, and right now, the strings were being jerked by a table of people whose money bought them the power and influence to do anything they pleased. Bond's eyes met Sorescu's, and he knew that Sorescu knew what he had just realized.

"It sounds like a terrible coincidence, Mr. Bond," said Sorescu this time in a low voice that only Bond could hear, "that MI6 should get in touch with us using this excuse just as their agents have been discovered dead. I do not believe you."

"With all due respect, Mr. Sorescu, you should be apologising to my superior for their deaths, and you should dispel of notions of attempts at double-crossing because those agents were sent by M. The operation was approved by the ministry but the agents were M's and they shared her agenda. She regrets the unnecessary deaths very much so she sent me to take her request and intentions directly to you with whatever information that they have managed to relay to her."

"And why do you think that I had anything to do with it?"

Bond gritted his teeth. He had to be careful now. Sorescu apparently was aware of spies in his organisation for a long time, and to have to justify the presence of the MI6 agents, including himself, was tricky. The wrong answer could jeopardise his and Foster's positions and give their identities, as well as their lives, away.

"If you had no part in it then why did you relate their deaths to my arrival?" he answered, having found the kink in the rope. Sorescu drew a deep breath and nodded. "Very well, Mr. Bond. I had no part in it, I assure you. It is just that the coincidence seemed rather striking." Sorescu cast a glance around the table. "Your employer's intentions are all very well, and you are quite an articulate man, but I find hard still to trust you."

"That is only normal, Mr. Sorescu. First appearances can be quite deceiving sometimes. I may not seem like an honest person. If you like, I can set up a meeting between you and her. No one has to fly anywhere, it can be over the phone or through live video conference."

Sorescu nodded, but Bond knew that he considered this a serious risk. For all Sorescu knew, the woman who called herself M could be lying as well. "How about 7pm, Mr. Bond? Then we can go straight to dinner at my restaurant here. One of the hospitality officers will escort you to the ascertained meeting place."

It was not immediately obvious, but Bond sensed a sign of dismissal. He thanked both Sorescu and the Defense Minister, who was reduced to silence and could only afford a polite smile and nod at Bond. _Poor bugger_, he thought to himself as he walked back to where Woodwick sat, and from whom he expected to hear another round of bombardment.

* * *

Evelyn checked her reflection in the mirror again, tucking stray strands of her ponytailed hair behind her ear. Waterproof mascara: check. Waterproof barely-there shimmery lip gloss: check. Waterproof blush: check. Waterproof –

Screw it.

She casually sauntered out of the bathroom and into her wardrobe without anything on except for her underwear. The sound of a woman weeping on the television in the bedroom drew her curiosity. She peered out from the other end of the walk-in wardrobe, which opened out to the bedroom. She allowed herself a scoff at the sight of Sorescu asleep on the bed, still fully dressed in his suit. His lips were pursed together, the discipline and strictness that dictated over almost every aspect of his life showed even in his sleep.

Evelyn returned to the wardrobe, which housed a huge collection of designer clothes, shoes, handbags, accessories, and just about anything that mattered to a fashionista, that she had amassed over the five years that she had been married to Sorescu. She selected a one-piece, bright turquoise swimsuit by Pucci that she had purchased two days ago but had not worn it yet. She felt a bit ridiculous by the bright, almost tacky colours. What was she thinking when she made the decision to buy it? She changed out of it and tossed the swimsuit into a box full of yet more designer clothes and accessories that she no longer wanted to wear, all of which would be auctioned off at the charity fete she would be hosting the day after tomorrow. Evelyn made a mental note to get housekeeping to dry clean them before the event.

She finally donned a simple red two-piece, grabbed a handbag in which she tucked a pair of Christian Dior sunglasses, put on a dark blue Chanel silk kimono with a white-and-blue floral pattern over her swimsuit and slipped into a pair of bejeweled Christian Louboutin heels. Normally she would wear a pair of comfortable slippers, but today's evening swim was going to be more of a chick chat between her and a select few of the WAGS of East Europe's male who's who, most of whom she was not even on a first-name basis with.

_The pains of being a rich man's wife_, she thought sardonically to herself as she strode out of the enormous wardrobe. The thought of it made her laugh. She was probably one of the most fortunate MI6 agents ever sent on an undercover mission. She had all the money, shoes and attention that most women longed for. Emiliana Sorescu loved the life that was laid out before her; Evelyn Foster only wanted nothing more than to return to her small flat in London and watch reruns of _Fawlty Towers _with a tub of ice cream.

"Emilia?" said Sorescu suddenly, startling her and making her stop in her tracks. She turned to look at him. "You're awake," she said dumbly.

He remained in his original position, with his head on the pillow and slumped on his neck. "Yes, I am. And may I know where you're off to?"

"A few friends and I are meeting up for a swim at the pool downstairs. It's nothing."

"Of course it is," he replied with a lazy smile. "Why? Is there a reason for me to think otherwise?"

Her heart unwittingly skipped a beat, but she remained the calm expression on her face. "No, of course not." She gave him her warmest smile. "You can trust me. I will never do anything that will upset you."

He nodded slowly. "I know that, my darling Emilia. That is why I want you to come back early, an hour before six, I hope. I would like you to be with me during the meeting with that James Bond and his supposed superior."

It was all that Evelyn could do to stop herself from punching her fists in the air. Finally, he had trusted her enough to allow her into the secret project that he had been planning so meticulously with his 'business partners'. She tried her best to contain her triumph with a coolly raised eyebrow. "Are you sure? You would not mind me if I listen to all those details that you have kept away from me so securely for all these months?"

Sorescu sat up and beckoned her to come to him. She did, and sat beside him on the bed, wondering what he was up to. He took her hand in his and clasped it so tightly that it panicked her. "I realize that I have been unfair to you. You have been good in helping me with the accounts and masking the – what I would like to call – lapses in the records, which are bound to occur in a business of this nature. You are quite intelligent, actually, compared to the previous man – do you remember that German oaf I used to employ, Harald Kiefensen? – most importantly, you're not afraid of the dirty side of the business and yet you're not the feisty, spunky type who can support or oppose me in a whim. Plus, you're family, and that is always safer than entrusting secrets to a stranger." He patted her hand firmly. "All I ask of you is to be my right hand person – not man, do you notice that, dear Emilia? – to be by my side not only in marriage but also in business. What do you think of my proposition?"

She did the only natural thing to do. She kissed him on the lips, a loving but not overly passionate kiss. "I think it is a good one. I do not object." Even when she was out of eyesight, Evelyn dared not allow herself a smile of triumph.

* * *

Woodwick's overbearing insistence at finding out why Bond had spent almost an hour at Sorescu's table, speaking 'in hush-hush conspiracy' with Defense Minister Popescu at that, and committing the most heinous crime by keeping tight-lipped about the whole affair, drove Bond out to the indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool on the sixth floor. A swim was just what he needed to clear his head and give him time to arrange his strategy. He could not hazard a call to M to tell her of what he had cooked up in the lie to Sorescu for fear that his mobile would be checked. All was left to chance, both of which he hated because they made him feel useless. As useless as he felt when he watched Vesper drown before his eyes. The sound and rush of the water in the pool that flooded his senses as he swam brought back the painful memories of that day. He squeezed his eyes and banished them out of his mind, but they kept coming back, haunting him.

_Why? _he finally had the courage to ask himself. Louder. _WHY?_

He rose to the surface and coughed as the burst of air entered his lungs. Still coughing, he swam for the pool edge and leaned against the smooth tiled wall as he wiped the water from his eyes and nose. He thought that he had truly put the incident behind him, even swore to himself that he would not revisit the very thought of her by handing that man, Mr. White, over to MI6 to do as they pleased with him. He had washed his hands clean of Vesper, and he was determined to keep them spotless.

His eyes caught the figure of Evelyn Foster as she strode into the pool area and left her belongings on a table flanked by two patio chairs. Bond allowed himself to admire her long and slender legs, and then the faultless curves of her slim hips and waist when she removed her kimono. Bond found himself catching his breath when she bent over to remove her shoes, allowing him a good eyeful of her décolletage. As if she knew he was watching, the moment she straightened up, her eyes caught his and she smiled, almost seductively.

He smiled and nodded politely back but he allowed his eyes to linger on her as she made her way towards him. She lowered herself gracefully onto the cool marble-tiled floor without so much as a shiver and dipped her long, flawless legs into the water.

"Hello," said Bond, without so much as a smile. "Don't you think it'll be wiser for us to act as perfect strangers whose only connection to each other is Sorescu?"

Foster tilted her head as they exchanged glances. "Well, technically we are, aren't we?" She lifted the tip of her toes to the surface of the water, teasing little ripples from the surface. He tried not to look. "Your reckless actions, Mrs. _Sorescu_, will get both of us killed by your gangster of a husband."

"I'm married, rich and bored. Action justified." There was just a touch of sarcasm in her voice. Lowering to a more serious note, she resumed, "Have you got your story straight with M?"

He had to crack a grin at that. "No."

Foster stared at him in undisguised amusement for a few seconds before letting out a laugh. "It's always fun to ruffle her feathers, isn't it? To see that indignant look on her face and watch her fumble for words is a joy."

"But that will also be courting termination and possibly your own death," he replied as he looked up at her. "A rather hefty price to pay, don't you think?"

"Are you always such a spoilsport, Mr. Bond?" she asked back. "No, don't answer that. I'll hazard a guess. A disaster, the tragic loss of someone important, someone you love or trusted, has turned your back against the holy institutions of marriage and amusement. You've got a hole, a big, gaping one that you're determined not to fill for fear of enlarging it."

She glanced back at him and took in his unfathomable expression, which was set in stone. She sighed and, without proper warning, pushed herself off the edge and into the pool. Bond watched as she swam a few metres away and turned back to face him. "Cheer up, Bond," she said to him, "how about you race me to the other end of the pool? I'll let you win."

Bond scoffed, but he swam out to where she floated and taunted him with a smug grin. "I'm in, but you'd better be a damn good swimmer."

"Or it would be a complete waste of muscles, won't it?" she remarked back.

* * *

**Was it too long and speechy? Let me know, as always, feedback is much appreciated and loved! THANKS!!**


	6. The Devil's Snare

**Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! Y'all are a supportive bunch! It was hard for me to write this chapter - I have like three drafts of this lying about! I hope this one is okay, not too describe-y but action-packed enough for you guys to drop me a REVIEW! Yep that's what I wanna hear... reviews! MWAHAHAHA!!! (at this level of evilness, the author looks set to replace her own villain in the story XD)**

**Disclaimer (hehe, HAVE to remember this!) : I don't own Bond, M, MI6 or any characters that are recognisable from Ian Fleming's universe. And, come to think of it, I don't own any Bond merchandise either! Wa!**

**Chapter 6: The Devil's Snare**

Bond turned off the torrent of cold water and stepped out of the glass shower. He grabbed one of the heavy and warm towels that were folded neatly on the brown marbled sink, wrapping it around his waist and another towel to dry his hair with a quick scrub over the head. He glanced at his watch which he had laid on the sink counter. Only twenty minutes till the meeting.

_You can do it, Bond_, he told himself as he took a deep breath and began dressing himself in the only tuxedo suit he had thought of bringing along to Brighton; the only tuxedo he owned that had not been sponsored by MI6. Just as he had tucked his shirt into his pants, the doorbell rang.

What was Woodwick doing at his room so early? he wondered. Didn't he tell him that he would meet him later at the restaurant? With a frown, he shouldered his coat on and he strode out to answer the door anyway.

It was Foster, dressed in a simple strapless wrap black gown. Her chocolate curls were let loose about her shoulders and framed her angular face almost precisely. Bond had never seen any woman look that perfect and immaculate.

"Don't you look just handsome tonight," she remarked with a smile. "Aren't you going to invite this lady in and perhaps throw in an equally encouraging comment for her?"

"You look nice," was all he could say as he stepped back to let her in and shut the door. She took the liberty of removing her shoes and hiking up her dress so that she could sit cross-legged on his bed. He took the armchair. "What are you doing here? Won't you get caught by the cameras or by any of his goons patrolling the hotel?"

She smirked. "He can see everything that everyone does in here, yes, but he won't have that much of time this week to do so, mind you. Not every guest is as simple and undemanding as you, you know." She opened her clutch, a leather one that was quite big even by Bond's standards, and removed a Fort 17 semi-automatic, which she duly loaded and handed to him.

"Just in case," she said quietly.

He took it from her anyway and stowed it in the inner pocket of his coat. It fit like a charm. "Why do you think I'll need it?"

Foster laughed. Nervously. "Oh, you never know, with this organization of his. One moment you're talking and joking with Sorescu and the next you're dead. I've seen his men shoot, torture and kill. Some of them do it in front of me when he's out of town so that I can tell the boss that he's done his job, earned his bones." She looked at him directly. "Oh believe me, some will get so desperate for work that they'll torture so cruelly and slowly just to impress me, and hopefully him."

"I see," he replied. "So I'll be sitting in a room of sharks and every word I say will be like fresh meat."

She smiled. "Don't put it in such a negative light, will you? If it makes you feel better at least we know that M will be even more flustered than you are." She got to her feet and placed both hands on the arms of his chair, leaning so that their eyes were on the same level.

"Be careful. And whatever happens, don't worry," she said and kissed his cheek lightly. Her lips were soft, sending tingles along the line of his jaw, and her breath was warm, her scent heady and inviting. Bond struggled to treat it as if it wasn't a big deal. With that, she left, leaving Bond with his heart heavy with fear and dread.

* * *

Sorescu watched as his men set up the electronic equipment in the conference room for the video conference that would ensue between Romania and Britain. He considered himself, and his highly commendable and trustworthy brothers in arms, as the true leaders of Romania. They had all risen from the dankest and poorest streets and villages in Romania to culminate together in power and purpose.

A boy, no more than five years old, barreled into the room from the waiters' entrance, his little fist grasping a bunch of pencils. "Look, Pa! Pencils!" he shouted as he ran over to his father, a thin man in a smart but worn-looking suit who was arranging chairs. His eyes widened in panic, taking the pencils from him immediately and hurriedly leaving them on the table. "What are you doing here? I'm working! Where's Mama, ha? Go to your Mama. Please, Micu, go to Mama – don't disturb Papa at work or the boss will fire him! Then how will you have food to eat and a house to stay, eh? Go and wait with Mama!" he ushered the boy out of the room back through the door where he came from, then with an apologetic grin and bow to Sorescu, the man resumed his work.

Sorescu did not respond. The scene was familiar: he was the five-year-old boy, and his father was one of the 'boss's' men. But his father, the man who young Mikhail looked up to even when he came home late and drunk almost every night, had died when he was seven. His mother kept repeating that it was a car accident, but when Mikhail grew up and was accepted to work for the Crowbar, the only kind of work that a dirt-poor and unschooled teenager living on the streets of Bucharest could afford to do, the Crowbar himself revealed the truth to him. His father had died during an armed face-off with the rival gang; he had died a hero. His son deserved the treatment the son of a fallen, loyal soldier deserved. Shortly after his indictment into the Crowbar's family, the big man himself gave Mikhail a new lease life: a comfortable two-storey house for his family, monthly allowances, and most importantly education. Mikhail was sent overseas to as far as Cambridge University, on a faked A-Levels result slip, of course.

But nothing that good had ever come without a substantial price. When Mikhail returned with an honours degree in Economics, he was instantly made the Crowbar's second-in-command. That also came with a license to kill, to kill anyone who put the organization and its secrets in jeopardy.

While Mikhail grew up to lord over the streets of Bucharest, his younger brother, Tibor Sorescu, slipped through the Crowbar's fingers and became an Interpol agent. The moment Tibor Sorescu began to probe and infiltrate the Crowbar's organization, both men were no longer brothers.

Sorescu closed his eyes at the memory; the sight and feel of the cool surface of the gun in his hand, the defiant pair of brown eyes that glared back at him even as he aimed the weapon between his eyes, then the explosion that ensued when he had pulled the trigger…

"Mikhail?" Sorescu opened his eyes at the sound of his wife's voice and the pressure of her palm against his shoulder. Emiliana sat next to him as they locked gazes. Her deep blue eyes were wide and questioning. He wondered, with a small flutter of uncertainty, if there were anything hidden behind them, if she would betray him the same way his brother had.

"Are you all right? Most of your partners are here and the video conference can be initiated at any time."

He nodded, stirring himself mentally to focus to the matter at hand. "I'm fine. Where's Bond?"

"Here," the man himself replied as he approached both of them. Sorescu smiled, though humourlessly. "Speak of the devil. What do you think of the setup?"

"Good," replied Bond briskly as he took the chair next to him. Sorescu looked around to find that all of the important associates were present. He nodded at the men by the entrance to shut the doors, then indicated for Bond to make the call.

The room was tense and silent as they watched Bond dial the numbers. He spoke short, direct sentences, giving no room for anyone to find any hidden meanings among the words. In a few minutes, the connection was set up and the whole conference room were now face-to-face with a woman with short grey hair and, altogether, a shrewd appearance.

"Hello, how do you do," she began, with no hint of a polite smile at all on her face, "my name is M."

"Fine, thank you," replied Sorescu. "I think there is no further introduction to be made here. I shall go straight to the point. As you can see, I do not act alone. For simplicity, I shall say that we call ourselves the Company. So anything that you wish to say about your proposition can be made openly, as it is for all of us to know and understand. But firstly, I am a bit curious: why the independent involvement with the Company?"

He observed her expression. There was a slight widening of eyes and straightening of her back, all classic tell-tale signs of shock, but she recovered quickly by clearing her throat. "I, like you, Mr. Sorescu, do not originate from a commendable background. Growing up, I was also plagued by poverty, and in the times of the Cold War, this poverty has caused me to lose many a good opportunity. But I am not here to tell you sad stories. Quite frankly, I want justice and equality in wealth and work for everyone. And it seems that my cause coincides with Defense Minister Popescu, which indirectly led me to you. So don't worry, Mr. Sorescu, there is no infiltration here, just an offer that will profit both of us. But we are both businesspeople at heart, so you know that there won't be a deal without a good reason."

Sorescu sat up in his leather swivel chair. "The deal then, is this. The first half you know: our cause. What's left is the execution. But before that, I'm sure you understand if I ask for confirmation of your intentions, proof that you are sincere."

"Very well," replied the woman, without so much as a sign of hesitation. Smooth. Too smooth. She read out the numbers to a Credit Suisse account. Sorescu ordered Emiliana to check the validity of the account with her laptop. He observed her as she accessed the bank's database and keyed in the numbers. She did it with precision and confidence, and Sorescu thought to himself that he couldn't have picked a better person than her.

"Valid," said Emiliana, and she showed the bank account balance to him: a healthy 150 million Euros. He nodded good-naturedly. "All is good at that front. But I am afraid that I cannot reveal everything to you." Her brows furrowed in annoyance, but that was quickly banished as well, replaced with one of stony calmness. "If you do not wish to do business, then I do not as well," she said tartly. "I cannot afford to throw money into a badly-lit room, not knowing who will catch them and what they will be used for."

"Which is completely understandable," he replied. Annoyance was his intention, and the feathers of a woman were easiest to ruffle. "So I shall tell you this: we will use the money to purchase weaponry, which, as you know, is not cheap these days, as is manual labour. You need not worry about the details, that is for us to take care of."

"Weaponry? Then may I know how that substantial amount of weaponry will be used?"

Sorescu held up his hand. A feeling of self-satisfaction surged through him now. He was at the upper hand, though the woman called M may not realize it. No, she would, but it would be too late by then. "Again, madam, you do not need to know that. All that you need to know that in due time, a new order will be established in Europe, all the way from Azerbaijan to Iceland, and when that is accomplished, you, my good partner, will reap what you have sown: a handsome monetary reward and a high-ranking position in the new union of European countries. But I will, of course, keep you updated on the progress of our mission through your advocate here, Mr. Bond, as long as he remains with us."

That, ultimately, left no room for the woman to maneuver. If she insisted on knowing the true mission that was underfoot, she would have given plenty of reason for not one, but a roomful of influential men who have enough manpower to prove a serious consequence for her attempt to double-cross him. The transfer of money was made, all 150 million Euros, and, just before the video conference was ended, Sorescu noted the dissatisfaction on both her face and Bond's.

Excellent.

* * *

The infiltration effort proved disastrous. M had done her best, but Sorescu had outsmarted them all. Bond kept his eyes and ears sharp as he followed Sorescu's entourage downstairs to dinner at the restaurant. Laughter and talk was shared by everyone in the group, even Sorescu and Foster, but Bond was noticeably the most silent, and no one bothered to engage him in their conversation anyway. He was treading a volatile minefield.

Anything could happen.

Despite Bond's misgivings, Sorescu invited him to join his table. By that time, Bond had developed a serious wish to see and talk to Woodwick again, not because he had suddenly grown fond of him, but at least he could be himself around Woodwick. Masquerading was not his game.

Surprisingly, Sorescu had also reserved a seat for Woodwick at his table. But even more surprising was that Woodwick didn't turn up at all. An hour after the meal had commenced and the main course was almost done with, there was still no sign of Woodwick. Bond observed the other tables, notably the ones with the most number of glamorous-looking women, but no sign of Woodwick. Throughout dinner, he tried to catch Foster's eyes, but she ignored him as she and her husband responded to everyone who came over to their table to have a brief chat with them.

Bond began to feel uneasy. Dessert arrived and still Woodwick's chair remained empty. He could not take it anymore. He excused himself from the table with a lie that he was not feeling well. He stopped for a moment in the lobby as he tried to call Woodwick with his mobile phone. No answer.

Was he all right?

Bond went straight up to Woodwick's room, which was next to his anyway, and knocked on the door. "Woodwick?" He tried again, this time harder.

"Woodwick, are you all right? Are you in there? It's James."

No reply. He knocked again. "Woodwick?"

The skin on his neck tingled as he felt a presence behind him. He turned around and narrowly avoided a sack that was about to be shoved over his head. He barely registered two formally dressed men as he avoided a direct fist to his face and responded with a hard blow of his own. His fist made contact with someone's jaw. Perhaps it broke, because the man who received it staggered backwards, the sack in his hand. The other man slung his hand around Bond's neck and locked him in a vice grip. He coughed and choked as he felt his airway constricted. He tried to pull the hand away, but the man was bigger and stronger than he was.

Bond mustered his strength and aimed a sharp kick at his knees. The man buckled, his grip loosened at once. Bond swung around, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and drove him, head first, into the wall next to Woodwick's door. Bond didn't know if his skull was cracked, but there was blood in his head and the man was properly knocked unconscious. Broken Jaw, however, had recuperated by then, and a silenced gun was drawn in his hand. Bond grabbed his arm and twisted it cruelly just as the trigger was pulled. A bullet escaped and lodged itself in the ceiling just as Broken Jaw cried in pain and sank to the ground, the gun dropping to the floor. Bond aimed several hard kicks to his side till Broken Jaw could no longer stand. He made a dash for the elevator, then remembered that there were cameras everywhere and there probably would be men on their way up already.

_Damn Sorescu!_ he cursed to himself as he ran wildly for the staircase, which he found in short order. He burst through the doors and had descended a few steps when he heard shouts and yells from above him. He jerked his head up. They were pursuing him from one floor up. Steps became leaps as Bond decided skipping a few steps wouldn't hurt him anymore than his assailants would. He remembered the gun in his coat and utilized it, not hesitating to fire a few shots at the army of at least five men behind him. He didn't stop to see how many had fallen to his bullets, but from the yells and thuds as bodies crumpled to the floor, it had to be at least two.

But just as he had landed two staircases later, something big and burly burst through a pair of doors and rammed into him, sending him banging onto the railing. His knees had already buckled, but he felt the cuff of his coat grabbed. The next thing he knew, he was being thrown all the way down to the next landing. He hit the wall, hard, and his head spun, but he forced himself up on his feet anyway.

The man who had knocked him down caught up with him, hitting him squarely on his face with a full-out punch. Bond staggered as he felt his vision fade and tasted blood in his mouth. The last thing he saw was a long, black stick whose smooth surface made contact with the side of his head and his world went black.

* * *

**So what do you think? If you've got an opinion, you know what to do - REVIEW! Yeah thanks!! :D**


	7. First, Do No Harm

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**Author's note: Hey everyone! Thanks so much for the reviews! Sorry for the late late update... been having exams the past week and I still have papers to sit for this week and next, but I just HAD to get this outta my system and take a break at the same time! I'm a bit afraid that it might seem too close to Casino Royale, but I had no choice but to stick to my plan, so hopefully this chappie is a good one! **

**Also, I've corrected the silly mistakes I've made for the previous chapters... rereading through them and spotting them were painful, and I couldn't believe my clumsiness! Gargh!**

**And as always, review, and review constructively (to quote another author on the site)! You know I need them! Hehe! Wish me luck for my exams and enjoy!**

**Chapter 7: First, Do No Harm**

They had shaken the last hand and uttered the last polite comment when the call came. Evelyn couldn't help but watch him, albeit a little nervously, as he answered it in a discreet manner. It had been three hours since Bond had left the restaurant. It had been a further five since the orders to capture him had been issued.

Finally, Sorescu ended the call and said to her, "They've got him."

They left the restaurant soon after, but instead of going straight back to their penthouse suite, he returned to the conference room they had convened earlier in the evening, where some of Sorescu's men were waiting for them.

"Mr. Sorescu, sir," greeted one as he came up to them.

"Ah, Grigor. Just the man I wanted to see," answered Sorescu with a smile, coming to a halt at the desk in the middle of the room. Then on a more serious note: "Have you got him?"

Grigor nodded.

"How much of a fight did he put up?"

"He has fought before, and he fought well," was all that Grigor could say. He was a tall, solidly-built man who was only getting the hang of the smart suits and diplomacies that came with being a strong arm of Mikhail Sorescu. Usually he let his fists and guns do the talking.

Sorescu cast a glance at the rest of his soldiers gathered in the room. "How many of us were hurt?"

"Two were shot and another – "

"Total?"

"Four injured, sir," said Grigor at last, hanging his head.

Sorescu turned to look at his wife, who returned his look steadily and unwaveringly. She looked so sure and confident that he was almost ready to believe that what she had told him regarding Bond was the whole truth. There was no hint of a liar in that steely expression: no twitching, no blinking nor a flicker of guilt in her eyes. But he still had to confirm.

He held out his hand and Grigor instantly removed a Sony Ericsson mobile phone from his coat pocket and placed it in his employer's palm. Bond's mobile phone.

Evelyn took the phone from him, her heart thudding wildly as she did so. She was aware of his eyes fixed on her as she removed the back cover, the battery and the SIM card. Grigor placed a metallic grey briefcase in front of her, unlocked it and removed a laptop from it. Evelyn booted it up, which took no time at all, attached the SIM card reader device that came with the briefcase, and inserted Bond's SIM card into the reader slot. A successful attempt at connecting with the British mobile network service provider Bond used revealed a comprehensive list of all the messages and calls that he had made with his phone, regardless of how long ago they were and if he had initially deleted them. She located the most recent call entry to a British telephone number and played the recorded call.

"It's not about her," Bond's voice was instantly recognisable, "I'm doing this for my country. This is the surefire way to get in. A personal confirmation from the high-ranking government official who sent me on this mission is just the thing to get Sorescu to pay attention."

"Her?" said Sorescu with a sharp frown at Evelyn.

"White's contact in Venice," she replied with as much as steadiness as she could muster, "the woman named Vesper Lynd."

"Oh. Well," was all that Sorescu could say, albeit with a little relief. He admitted to himself that he was almost expecting the 'her' to refer to his wife. Once again, he looked directly into her eyes, and, once again, she was strong and clear and honest. "Well," he cleared his throat and nodded, "get this back to Pazcarek. And tell him thanks for letting us use his toy."

When Sorescu turned his back to leave, he didn't notice the glances exchanged between Evelyn and Grigor, and he certainly didn't hear the silent 'thank you' that she mouthed to him when Grigor promptly placed Bond's mobile phone and SIM card into a light brown envelope with a Greek stamp attached onto it.

* * *

Bond was brought rudely back to consciousness by an abrupt splash of cold water. The first sound he registered was of a plastic bucket thrown onto the floor, the vibration of the ensuing echoes reached one side of Bond's cheeks. His eyes opened at once to assess the hostile surroundings. He had half a thought to wipe the water from his eyes and nose; water was dripping from his hair and all angles of his face, but his wrists and ankles were bound so tightly that he could feel the rough material of the rope cutting into his flesh.

He couldn't resist a short, dry, humourless laugh even with the side of his mouth pressed to the damp stone floor. _Excellent, more torture_, he thought to himself. At least he still had his clothes on, even though his coat was missing.

Someone grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him upright. A torchlight was shined directly at his face, causing him to squint. Suddenly the light was shut off, and as his vision regained focus, a body, then a face, came into view.

And it was a familiar one.

"You," he spluttered.

"Oops," said Evelyn Foster, her voice and her expression cool and merciless, and still dressed in the black dress that she had worn to dinner. "Wrong word." She stood and gestured at the man who had a fistful of Bond's shirt in his grip. He was immediately dragged on his knees out of the small room that he had been contained in, down a dimly lit corridor, and into another room, this time brightly lit, smelling of disinfectant, and filled with some machinery that looked like they hadn't been used since World War II.

Where the hell was he? What was going on? And Foster…

She was a traitor.

That thought alone was enough to drive Bond mad. A thousand thoughts rushed into his mind, but one emotion was clear: rage. He had been tricked, again, by a woman he had thought he could trust. He had been promised himself to be extra vigilant, extra wary the moment he had set his eyes on her picture in M's file. Women, always women! And what about Woodwick? Was his disappearing act part of the charade too?

But there was something he didn't understand. If Foster had planned to betray him to Sorescu all along, why had she come to his room before the meeting? Why had she given him the gun and told him 'not to worry'? What was she up to?

A metallic table stood meekly in the middle of the room and Bond was, quite literally, flung onto it. His arms were yanked upwards and strapped to the table with a few layers of duct tape. Another man appeared and, using a pen knife, cut and tore his shirt away from him so that Bond was stripped to his chest. And all the while Foster just stood there with her arms folded, staring at him with an unfathomable expression. He glared back at her while he could, trying to see if there was a flicker of regret, perhaps, or even sympathy.

But there was nothing.

Then the men stepped back from him, leaving him cold and exposed and vulnerable. Movement bustled around him: there were the sound of squeaking wheels and footsteps and murmurs, and when he saw a trolley coming to stop just where his feet ended, he began to feel a tremour of panic.

"So, Mr. Bond," said a familiar voice, which drew Bond's attention at once. His head shot up and Sorescu's smiling face came into view. He put one hand on the table and leaned on it as if he was talking to his secretary. "You must have guessed by now that I have guessed everything, which is true, of course. I know that the deal that you and M had set up for me was a false one. A trap, to be more precise, eh?" He shook his head and clicked his tongue. "I must admit, though, that it was a very clever plan, but unfortunately, I am the cleverer one here instead.

"But there is still something which I don't know, and which I am just dying to know," said Sorescu, pacing up and down his side like an agitated tiger, making Bond feel restless as well. "The MI6 agents that were sent to spy on me and my associates," he stopped and looked sharply at Bond. "The agents that, I'm sure you know, are dead under my orders. My own intelligence tells me that there is still at least one spy left implanted amongst my organization. I believe, Mr. Bond, that you know who it is. And before the night is over, you will tell me. Everything."

Bond didn't reply. He couldn't. He was caught in a crossfire. He had the perfect opportunity to blurt out that his wife, the woman who Sorescu knew to be Emiliana Sorescu, was actually the mole he was looking for, and God knows what could happen. The tables would be turned and Foster could actually get hurt, maybe killed. Bond was seriously tempted to do it; that would be an excellent reward for her treachery.

"_Be careful. And no matter what happens, don't worry_."

Only God knew what she meant and why that one sentence was holding him back from lashing out and saving his own skin.

"You know, Mr. Bond, I have my own people in the British government as well," said Sorescu with a dry smile, "But don't worry, I won't tell you who and where they are. I'm no traitor," he laughed. "But one thing is for sure, they are people who are higher in position than your dear director of MI6. Do you remember the little fake meeting we had before dinner? Of course you do. Now, being the clever person I am, that whole… _masquerade_ has been recorded on videotape and is ready for delivery. All I need to do is to give that tape to my dear British allies, and you, as well as that very pretty old woman who played along with you, are as good as dead."

Panic rose up in Bond's throat. M! He had thought that the game he had coaxed her to play in was a harmless one, merely a modus operandi to get the cat out of the bag, but now everything had backfired. He didn't mind if his life was the one at stake. Sorescu could threaten to feed him to a safari full of predators and Bond could still, at least, try and wriggle his way out of it. But M…

He trusted her to have a damn good escape plan for herself.

"What do you want?" asked Bond brusquely.

"A deal. A real one this time. Tell me the name, or names, of the remaining MI6 rats who are still in my organization, the ones who are helping you out here in Bucharest, in short, and in return, I will discard the tape that will destroy both of your lives. What do you say to that, eh?"

Bond couldn't resist a laugh that shook his entire body. The whole scene was, in an odd way, amusing. The mole that Sorescu was looking for, the one whose identity he was willing to _kill_ to discover, was actually standing right next to him. It would make Sorescu look like a complete idiot if he knew, and they would all be killed, including him. It was seriously quite funny. "Do you seriously think that I'll be as easy to persuade as that?" he scoffed directly at Sorescu's face. "Don't you know that people like me need a bit more encouragement? Maybe a lifetime supply of the Reader's Digest?"

Sorescu broke into a wide grin. "Oh, is that how you operate, Mr. Bond? Sorry, my bad. I should have known better. Get me the trolley, Emiliana. Mr. Bond wants to be baited and tempted, and we will give it to him, won't we?"

Foster did as she was told, and this time she met Bond's eyes directly. Her gaze was wide and touched with a tinge of fear. If he looked hard enough, maybe she was even shaking her head. But he couldn't, and he didn't want to, care.

"Let me ask you a question, Mr. Bond," said Sorescu as he peered at the contents of the trolley. Bond raised his head a bit and what he saw made his heart stop. A tray full of knives was laid out on the trolley. And they looked none too clean. There was also a bottle of clear liquid, which Bond assumed to be vodka or some sort of spirit, and there was a hotel sewing kit, with the emblem of the Napoleon upon it. Sorescu picked a knife, which actually looked thin and sharp enough to be a scalpel, and resumed speaking: "have you ever had appendicitis before?"

"Maybe, who knows? My medical records are all on the MI6 database. You can ask your wife to look it up for you if you want to know," he replied carelessly.

"Good one, Mr. Bond," said Sorescu with a brisk laugh, "your apparent lack of love for your well-being amuses me. Well, I did, Mr Bond; I had appendicitis when I was young. Very young. And when I was young, I was so poor and deprived that I could not afford to go to the hospital and have my appendix removed. But in the end my father managed to take it out." He smiled at Bond. "He did it with nothing but a knife, a dinner fork, his cheapest vodka, my mama's sewing box, a lot of towels and a lot of painkillers. It was all done on the kitchen table, and I am still alive today to prove that appendicitis is not a big deal after all." He shrugged. "Nothing to it, really, come to think about it. And so you, Mr. Bond, such a tough guy like yourself, should be able to deal with it, no?"

"Sure, why not?" Those words were out of Bond's mouth before he could censor them. Shit. But he had said them and he couldn't take it back. The scalpel glinted dangerously in his hand.

"One last chance, Mr. Bond," said Sorescu, this time his voice was ruthless and cold, "who – is – the – mole?"

Bond stared at him defiantly, making sure that every ounce of his determination to keep his will straight and unbent showed in every plane of his face. Sorescu wasn't the first person who had tried to intimidate him, and he certainly won't be the last. So to hell with it, and he wouldn't make a sound either.

"Me," he growled.

"Very well." He sank his blade into his lower right abdomen, slowly and forcefully, then jerking it several centimeters to the side to make a messy, bloody incision. Bond screamed; the sharp, blinding pain was excruciating; worse than having his bollocks whipped. Every nerve ending in his body writhed and convulsed in agony. But Sorescu was not even done.

"Oh goodness, what a lousy doctor I am. We mustn't get you infected or else you'll sue the hospital and I will lose my job," said Sorescu with sarcasm that did not amuse Bond at all, grabbing the bottle of vodka, uncapping it and sloshing half the bottle over where he had cut into his flesh. Another anguished scream ripped through Bond's lungs as the alcohol seared mercilessly into the cut and brought with it an entirely new dimension of pain. By now his mind was spinning and hurtling itself through a senseless void. Physically, he was tortured and in extreme pain, but mentally, he was numbed.

"So what now, eh?" asked Sorescu, laughing as he held the bloody scalpel so close to Bond's nose and mouth that the blade almost grazed his skin. "Smell it, smell your own blood. It is you who are doing this to yourself. I gave you such an easy option: names in exchange for your own safety. But you, you are one hell of an arrogant fool, are you not?" With the other hand, he delivered such an astounding blow to Bond's jaw that he could feel the bones break and blood seep into his mouth. But he laughed. Laughed in the face of the pain. Oh God, it felt good. Strangely good and cleansing and… well, good.

"Names, please," hissed Sorescu into his ear.

Bond merely grinned maniacally back at him. Seriously, did Sorescu expect him to be able to continue talking coherently with a broken jaw? "Y-y-you've got to d-do a little better than th-that, darling."

And the torture resumed.

* * *

**Well, it wasn't easy to think of something that's worse than walloping you-know-what! Hehe, anyway, let me know what you think, CONSTRUCTIVELY. Thanks!**


	8. The Living Daylights

**Author's note: Heeeey! I've completed my exams!!! YAY!!! Aren't you guys happy for me? Thanks for the reviews - much, MUCH appreciated! Hopefully this chappie will be good... not much action again, lots of speechy. But hey, just review if you found it good (or bad, whichever way works!)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the usual suspects. Haha.**

**Chapter 8: The Living Daylights**

Bond had lost all sense of time.

He had lost count of the hours, since there weren't any windows in the torture room nor in his cell. The only indication of what time it could have been was the clothes that Sorescu and Foster wore when he was dragged back into the room for his next appendix scrape. Plain three-piece suit with a tie and a pretty knee-length dress indicated it was probably mid-afternoon. Dinner jacket with a bow and a floor-length, sometimes with a plunging neckline meant that it was after dinner and the festivities at the hotel had ended. But after several times of the torturous procedure, Bond had ceased to care. The fresh pain that stabbed and pierced into his very being every time the wound on his abdomen was reopened became his friend.

And through it all, Foster didn't say a word to him, nor did she show any indication that help was coming, that somehow she had managed to contact MI6 and send in people to get him. Even the Bucharest police force would be nice. But she had merely given him the silent treatment. Sometimes she stayed behind to stitch his wound up and treat it with antiseptic when one of the torture sessions were over. Not that Bond wasn't grateful for it, but he actually preferred if she didn't do it at all, because it only gave Sorescu the pleasure of ripping the stitches apart with a blunt knife.

However, such inadequate medical attention wasn't enough to make up for the extent of the damage that Sorescu had inflicted upon him. After a few days, Bond was starting to feel feverish. His hands, his legs shivered, at first periodically, but the shivers became worse. Even when he was awake, his vision was filled with nonsensical shapes. The tangible gave way to the intangible, and even Sorescu's voice seemed to him like the drone of a bee.

And Bond knew that if he went on like this, he would die.

So he was only barely aware when the door of his cell opened and a man strode hurriedly into it. He held a gun in his hands. Bond's first thought was one of gratefulness: here was someone to put an end to his suffering. But no, the man knelt, put his gun down, drew a Swiss army knife out of his coat pocket and cut his bonds. Bond immediately reeled forward, but the man caught him and pulled him up to his feet. Another wave of pain slammed into his lower abdomen and Bond's knees buckled as he cried out in pain.

"Your wound is septic. There isn't much time left," said the man. "Come on."

Bond had just enough sense to ask him: "Who are you?"

"My name is Grigor Morena. Don't worry, my orders come from Mrs. Sorescu only."

"Ah."

Grigor Morena slung one of Bond's arm around his shoulders and proceeded to lead him out of the room. But Bond was so weak that he couldn't even put one foot in front of the other, which resulted in Grigor having had to drag him along instead. The corridor was not lit; that meant that Sorescu and his torture crew wasn't going to arrive anytime soon. Bond saw bodies strewn on the floor further up from the room where he was contained but Grigor immediately led him away from the sight and down the corridor. At the end of the corridor was a pair of double doors, and between the two of them only Grigor had the strength to push them. Then they were out, out into the living daylights.

Never had the sun been so welcoming to his senses.

Suddenly, Bond's breath shook and his limbs trembled. The shivers were coming back. Grigor felt it as well and hoisted him back up to his feet, made him stand firmly. "Stay with me, Mr. Bond. We're almost there."

_There? Where?_ But Bond couldn't muster enough wits to ask him. He barely made out the outline of a wired fence with barbed wire decorating its crown. An open gate awaited him. Faint shouts erupted from behind them, in the building they had just left. Just as Grigor whirled around in panic, a speeding black Audi pulled up at the gate, its tyres squealing as it braked. The driver leapt out of the car and gestured wildly to Grigor, who nodded and turned to Bond, giving him a hard shake to make him focus.

"Listen here, Bond! Get in the car and get out of Bucharest. Do you hear me? Don't come back, or you'll be dead for good. Now, go!" With that he gave Bond a push in the direction of the car and darted back into the building, drawing his gun and cocking it.

The light was too bright. It blinded Bond's eyes. What Grigor Morena said only made the littlest sense to him, but the urgency was real. Shivering and dazed and in agony, Bond forced himself to move. A plod at first, then he heard his Christian name called by the driver of the car. He couldn't make out who it was, but the voice sounded familiar. He quickened his pace, but it was an uphill struggle as the shivering got to the limbs of his legs as well. He heard gunshots behind him, in the building. The driver ran around the back of his car, through the open gate and towards him just as the world began to spin.

Bond felt himself being carried again, one arm slung around the other man's shoulders. "It's all right, James, it's all right. I'm here. We'll go away," said the other man, and Bond realised vaguely who it was.

"Woodwick?" he croaked.

"Yes, James, it's me. I'll tell you everything later. Just hang on."

Then the coolness of leather seats enveloped Bond as he practically sank into the back seat of the car, head first. He let his limbs be arranged hastily on the seat, then he heard the door shut to his side. Seconds later, the car accelerated abruptly forwards, and the last thing that registered in Bond's mind before he slipped into darkness was the smell of lavender soap.

* * *

It might have been a few hours, maybe a few days, or weeks even, before Bond came to his senses again. He felt just as helpless and immobile as he had when he was in captivity, but this time his wrists weren't bound, he was lying on a comfortable mattress, he had a shirt on, which smelt clean, and there was plenty of light, natural light streaming in from the windows to his right. He still felt the pangs of pain, but they were dulled and muted.

All in all, a wonderful improvement from yesterday, whenever that was.

He thought that he was in a hospital room, but as his vision focused and he could muster enough strength to push himself up, he saw that he was in a bedroom with bright, white walls, white linen curtains and a ceiling fan that rotated lazily. The windows were open, emitting the smell of salt sea breeze. There was no one else in the room, though.

With much difficulty and a good deal of moaning and grunting, Bond managed to move his legs, which felt like lead after being useless for so long, so that they hung over the side of the bed. Then slowly, and painfully, he rose to his feet and edged gingerly towards the windows. God, his whole body ached, even his jaws. But at least he was alive.

A grey expanse of sea was visible to where he stood. The docks were close enough some distance below the windows till he could see the men loading and unloading tanker ships down to measly trawlers. Where was he?

Most importantly, what ruse was Foster up to?

"You're awake!" exclaimed a feminine voice behind him. His heart jumped; for a moment he thought it was Foster, and the thought instantly made him glad, instead of the resentment he had been harbouring towards her. It surprised him. However, a quick reassessment of the voice told him that it wasn't her. He turned around anyway to see who it actually was.

His eyes rested on a woman standing at the doorway connecting his room and the adjacent one. He hadn't noticed the doorway earlier. She had short, bobbed light brown hair, tanned skin and warm, honeyed brown eyes. And she was smiling at him with relief. Perhaps a little too much relief for Bond's liking.

She smelt of lavender soap, though.

"I'd better tell Joel; he'll be so happy to see you up and about!" she said again, turning to leave, but she stopped short and whirled around again. "Would you like me to get you anything? Some water and food? You must be starving."

"That would be nice, thanks. Where am I? And how long have I been unconscious?"

"You're in my grandmother's house in Constanza, Romania, and that's the Black Sea outside your window. You've been out for two days, and approximately seven hours." She smiled again. "Well, anyway, welcome back to earth!"

Bond merely smiled gratefully back at her and watched her leave. Her pertness was amusing. But he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed and wish that she had been Foster instead. That way, he could at least demand an explanation from her, and perhaps some assurance.

He turned heavily to the windows. Now, the path that lay before him was dark and uncertain. What other things had the disastrous dealing with Sorescu caused to happen? Was he and M in danger? Were their heads being hunted by the very people who had employed them? Bond couldn't help but feel his heart stir with restlessness. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone hurting M. As much as he enjoyed, sometimes, seeing M in trouble, he didn't have the heart to cause her to lose her job, much less her life, if he couldn't help it. Not that M had ever been particularly nice to him, but he knew that she trusted him, even if she had never, and would probably never, admit it to him.

"James!"

Bond's smile was one of genuine mirth, this time. "There you are, Woodwick!" he said as both men clasped each other in a quick, grateful hug. "Been looking all over for you, didn't you know?"

"I know you did, James. And I'm truly sorry. We both have a lot of explanation to do, so why don't you sit? How are you feeling?"

"Splendid," replied Bond. Woodwick tried to help him to get back onto the bed but Bond waved him away. "What do you mean by 'we'? You're the one who went ballistic on me."

Woodwick drew up a chair and sat facing Bond with a grim smile. "You never told me that you were with the Secret Service. I got the biggest shock of my life, short of hearing that my second ex-girlfriend had hung my credit cards up as Christmas ornaments, when Emiliana – I mean, Evelyn Foster – came to my room that night and told me that _both_ of you were MI6 agents. Then she gave me the keys to a nice Audi, fake passports for the both of us, a mobile phone and a gun, and told me to wait for a call from a person called Grigor Morena. I'm to take you out of the country, if not, at least out of Bucharest. Once your rescue is made known to Sorescu, we're to be fugitives." He shook his head slowly. "I never imagined myself to have to run away from the police! I run a perfectly legitimate business, I have never gotten on the wrong side of the law before, and I have even served with the British army. Now I am suddenly jobless _and_ a wanted criminal."

"Woodwick, as a rule of thumb, we try not to let civilians do our jobs for us, unless there's really no other option. She must have given you a choice. You could have said no and make a clean escape."

Woodwick laughed, but it wasn't the jovial, careless laugh that Bond was used to hearing. " I suppose I could, couldn't I? I agreed to help her, and you indirectly, because you were my only true friend." He looked out the window. "Oh sure, I have many friends in business whose company I enjoy, but none of them had ever stuck their neck out for me, nor would they want to either." He looked back at Bond with a wistful smile. "I owe you one for saving my arse in Japan, remember?"

Bond smiled back in return. "Of course I do." They had been new recruits with the British army and were assigned to be part of the British delegates at the American base in Japan. Being young and foolish and virile, both Bond and Woodwick had decided to roam the streets of Tokyo on one of the rare off-duty nights in search of pretty Japanese women. Fate brought them to a cheap brothel tucked away in some smelly district of the city. Bond had settled for one of the giggly, doe-eyed girls whose dressing left almost nothing to the imagination, but Woodwick insisted on having a foxy bartender, who happened to be the current squeeze of the brothel owner. Who happened to be a member of the _yakuza_. Woodwick would have been dead at the hands of said brothel owner if Bond hadn't mustered his guts and smashed an empty bottle of vodka over his head. They had ended up running away from the scene with a whole band of _yakuza_ thugs chasing after them, spewing profanities and death threats.

There was a soft knock on the doorway frame and both men turned. The woman who had greeted Bond entered the room with a smile and a breakfast tray. She climbed lithely onto the bed and laid the tray on the mattress beside Bond before sitting near where his legs lay. As she did so, Bond gave Woodwick a questioning glance.

Woodwick waggled his eyebrows back at him. "James, meet Dr. Leda Bertram. Leda, James," he said.

"I know," she said with a disarming smile at Bond, who smiled back in genuine surprise. Never would he have guessed that someone as spry and, well, light-headed as her to be a doctor. "We've met. Conscious and unconsciously." She reached over to the tray and took a large, brown envelope that she had tucked under a plate of toast. "Well, James, food, or top secret documents first? I would advise the food first, but I suppose I can go lenient for you," she said to Bond with a touch of cheek in her voice as she held up the envelope. On a more serious note, she added: "It's from Mrs. Sor – Miss Foster, sorry – and it's for your eyes only."

Bond was hungry, not for food but for answers. He took the envelope from her and tore it open.

* * *

Keeping an impassive expression was becoming easy for Evelyn. When you were a rookie on your first undercover mission, the charades were heart-wrenchingly difficult to sit through. All it took was a pair of eyes that shone with the promise of tears, sometimes a plea to think about the children who would be left orphaned. But practice makes perfect. Sorescu and his men had executed countless people since she had married into the organization, and she was there to witness the most important and emotional ones. Over that period of time, she had perfected the art of hiding: turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. Steel your heart. Nothing can move you. Let your heart be torn to pieces, let your soul scream. But don't – move – a – muscle.

So she watched stonily, her husband by her side, as Grigor Morena, who was bound to a chair, came to consciousness. Sorescu's eyes had flared with silent rage when he had gotten the call that Bond had escaped. It did not console him that the culprit who had helped him was one of his own men. The mole had been found, but it did not alleviate the pain of humiliation.

Evelyn did, for Grigor had saved her life. His conviction would throw Sorescu off her trail. It was a necessary sacrifice. Both Grigor and Evelyn knew what was at stake when they had agreed on the plan that had been set in motion. He wouldn't blame her, and she took solace in that.

"You helped him escape," stated Sorescu matter-of-factly.

Grigor seemed to have come to himself and stared directly at his boss. "I did."

"You betrayed me. And I trusted you. Why did you do it? I gave you money, expensive clothes, a good house, a car. What did I not do enough?"

Grigor smiled. "Just kill me, boss."

Sorescu scoffed, but he held his hand out. One of the men who were standing in his room handed him an Arsenal P-M02. Suddenly, he handed the gun to Evelyn.

Startled, she could only stare wide-eyed at him. It was painful enough to have to watch his execution, but to be the one to do it…

It would positively kill her. Kill what humanity that was left.

Sorescu smiled at her in an assuring manner. It only made her body temperature drop several degrees. "Your turn, Emilia darling. In time, you will be just as important as I am, so why not start your training now?"

Evelyn drew a deep breath and took the gun from him. It felt much heavier than the identical model that she had given to Joel Woodwick. She turned to look at Grigor, willing the muscles of her face to stay as straight as possible as she pointed the gun directly at the spot between his eyes. Grigor did not plea, nor was he about to cry, but the direct challenge of his gaze was enough to make her breath tremble and her hand shake. But somehow, she manage to keep them straight.

"You can do it, Emilia," said Sorescu, his hands in his pocket.

_Forgive me, Grigor_.

She pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot echoed in the bare room. The impact of the short-distance bullet upon Grigor's forehead tipped his body and the chair over so that both fell to the floor with a loud clang. Evelyn lowered the gun as Sorescu went over to where Grigor's lifeless body lay and peered down at him. For a moment, Evelyn seriously considered shooting him there and then while the gun was still in her hands, but it would give herself away.

Give herself away. She was sick of keeping to the story. Sick of behaving, moving and feeling like another person. Death suddenly seemed rather attractive. All she had to do was open fire on Sorescu and it would all come to an end. His life, hers; his empire would collapse.

Then she thought of his 'business partners'. They were all as powerful as Sorescu was in their own homelands, in their own empires. Without him, they would carry on the crusade anyway. Maybe their finances would be hugely crippled, not helped at all by the current financial crisis, but there would always be a way. There was liquidity to be found amongst the warlords in Africa, the ones who hoarded their wealth and were ready to barter with any Western kingpin in exchange for a taste of power and elevated status in the world of the West.

_No_, she thought as she lowered the gun with gritted teeth. The plan had already been set in motion. She would cripple this crusade single-handedly if she had to. She would die another time.

"Are you all right, love?" said Sorescu as he eased the gun out of her hands. Evelyn roused herself from her dark thoughts and smiled weakly at him. "I'm all right."

"This is your first kill. It is only natural to be frightened." He tilted his head to one side. "But you, darling, are the picture of calmness. You did not even ask me to change my mind. My, my, are you sure you have not done this before?"

She shot him such a sharp glare, despite her better judgment, that he laughed and drew her into his arms. "My dear, you can be so unpredictable sometimes," he murmured against her hair. "I will never understand you." He pulled away before she had a chance to reply. "Ah! I've been meaning to tell you this for some time now: we have decided to go by another name, an official one. From now on, all our dealings, transactions and action will be placed under one united identity." He scrunched his nose in distaste. " 'The Company' is too bland, don't you think?"

"Whatever the name you have chosen, I am sure it would be brilliant," she said in the most steady and reassuring voice that she could manage.

"It is," he beamed. He seemed to be in better humour than he was earlier, oblivious to the goings-on around them as Grigor's body was being removed. "We have decided to call ourselves the Strategic Plan for Equality in Constitution, Trade, Revenue and Employment. In short: SPECTRE." He grinned. "Good, no?"

* * *

**Dun dun dun! (Gotta think of better sound effects!) And sooo ladies and gentlemen, SPECTRE is born! Actually, I think that what it stands for sounds pretty lame, so if you guys have any suggestions on what SPECTRE should stand for, let me know okay? **

**As always, do let me know what you guys think about this chappie! I felt that it was really long and, well, LONG, and pretty passive. I lengthened out the paragraphs with descriptive stuff, so tell me (honestly!) whether I should continue in this style or not. **

**Oh yes, I almost forgot: this author finally, FINALLY watched Quantum of Solace! Whipppeee! The chase scenes were awesome (I loved the one in Siena where they fought with the ropes!) Olga Kurylenko rocked and my heart just positively broke for Fields... and yeesh, Dominic Greene screams like a girl! Yikes! The M-Bond relationship just got taken to a new dimension and I absolutely loved to see how the ice around her heart is dissolving for him, in a motherly way of course :P In short, I thought it was amazing, but I dunno, I still like Casino Royale a wee bit better...**

**And oh yeah, sorry for the mini movie review. As it is, REVIEW! (This story, I mean, haha!)**


	9. Trouble, Served On A Silver Platter

**Author's note: Well, how long has it been?? I've been on a short hiatus, coupled together with a massive writer's block, but I'm back with yet another speechy chapter! Haha... gosh, I have to quite the habit of speechy chapters! Anyway, this is a little Christmas present from me to everyone who's reading this story... Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone! :)**

**Disclaimer: What, it's not like I'm gonna make any real money off them... pfft, REALLY...**

**Chapter 9: Trouble, Served On A Silver Platter**

_Dear Bond,_

_First and foremost, if you have received this letter from the hand of Dr. Leda Bertram, then you may be assured that you are in safe hands, and on the right track. Secondly, this is not a letter of apology. You may presume that I have wronged you, betrayed you, and put you through such pain that is unimaginable by me, a rich man's wife, but let me remind you that I am also an MI6 agent, and this is not the first time that I had to risk the life of another without preparing for the consequences. _

_Your little ruse at Bucharest, along with M's, has been reported to the British government, disguised as treason. Your lives are in danger. By the time you receive this, both of you will be wanted by the government as traitors to Her Majesty. There is only one thing you can do to and that is to clear your names. Here, you may smile to yourself wistfully. Yes, you and M are caught in a snitch that I had not intended to prepare, but it is a snitch that will benefit both you and me. _

_Enclosed are what information I have gathered regarding Sorescu's little project: all his associates and their affiliations. However, the most useful and recent piece will be the one regarding the Lebanese weapons merchant named Ahab Benjadeel, who I have met several times and is a friend in philosophy to Sorescu. During the writing of this letter, it occurred that Benjadeel had decided to withdraw from a contract that required him to supply weapons to Sorescu. Perhaps he knows something of Sorescu's project that has caused him to pull out of the deal._

_I trust that you will take the necessary action. And please, try not to get killed._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Evelyn Foster_

_P.S. Your phone awaits you at a hotel in Mykonos. Dr. Bertram has the address. There is someone there that you should meet._

"So…" said Woodwick uncertainly as he handed the letter back to Bond. "What are you going to do next? Go to Mykonos?"

Bond's fingers were about to touch the piece of paper when, Leda, who sat beside him on the bed, snatched it out of his grasp, stared at him with an arched eyebrow and proceeded to read it. Bond sighed and eyed Woodwick, who merely shrugged. Truth to be told, Leda Bertram had been more of a nuisance than a useful accomplice. What she had been commissioned by Foster to do, that is to attend to his injuries and pass him her message, had been accomplished, and besides doing housework and cooking meals, all she had been doing was to annoy Bond and tease Woodwick to no end. And poor Woodwick, it seemed that he had developed some sort of affection for her.

Before Bond could reply, however, Leda beat him to it. "What? Are you serious? What if it's a trap?"

"Well you don't have to worry about it," he replied with gritted teeth, "because I'll be going alone."

"No, you're not, James," said Woodwick in a serious tone, "I'm coming with you."

"And I will too," added Leda.

"No," said Bond firmly. "This isn't some sort of high-seas adventure. This is a matter of life and death." He made sure to give each of them a sharp look. Woodwick's face clouded a bit, but Leda remained defiant. "I don't want to drag you in any deeper than you are now. Woodwick, you should head home to London and turn yourself in. Tell them that you're my accomplice, and tell them everything that's happened to you in Bucharest. The worst that could happen to you is a lawsuit by Sorescu," Bond allowed himself a dry smile, "which I believe you can weather through with the amount of money you have."

"And what about me?" asked Leda, her tone as if challenging the authority Bond didn't know he had. Her chin was turned up, her glare unwavering.

Bond quickly plucked the letter out of her hands, and she jumped, startled from his sudden motion. "You will go back to wherever you came from and not breathe a word of this to anyone."

Her nostrils flared and the pupils of her eyes widened, but she didn't say a word. Instead, she pushed herself off the bed and stormed out of the room, knocking down a lamp in the process. Bond didn't even bother watching her go. Good riddance.

"That was unkind, James," said Woodwick.

"I didn't have a choice, did I? You have to be blunt with women or else they think you actually care about them. Then they start caring about you and that's how things get messy. I don't like messy," replied Bond tartly, as he folded Foster's letter neatly and reinserted it into the envelope.

"Yes, but _still_," said Woodwick with a sigh, "How can you be so heartless? When did you learn to be so? Where's the James that I know? The James with such passion for life and people?"

"That man is dead," Bond said, as he looked past Woodwick and towards the grey, bland sea. _He died with her_, added his conscience dully.

No, it wouldn't do. He couldn't keep moping and brooding about Vesper like that. He had to get a grip on himself. If she could see him now, she would be laughing at the hole she had left in his soul. Yes, the only way to get back at her would be to fill it. Be whole again. But he wouldn't be the same, oh no. He would fill that hole and be a better person. He would make her regret her deeds.

_God, what are you thinking? _he thought to himself with an angry shake of his head, _the woman is dead. No matter what you do, she's dead._

"Look," said Woodwick suddenly, leaning forwards in his chair. "Your idea of me going back to London and all is fairly well. But I don't want any of that. I'm not looking for thrill, James. I've thought about it: even if I go home and spill, I'm not going to be able to go back to the way I was. So the best thing to do is to stay with you and help you fix this mess, whatever that is. So, in short, I'm coming with you. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Bond couldn't help but smile. "Then so be it."

* * *

"There you go, _gentlemen_," there was an acidic quality to the way Leda pronounced the last word as she handed Bond and Woodwick their tickets to Athens, where they would take a connecting flight to Mykonos. They were gathered in the airport lounge in Constanta, which was small, dingy and smelt of stale cigarette smoke and cheap coffee. Woodwick tried to laugh, but the laugh died in his throat. Bond ignored it, but he couldn't help but notice that she was hiding something behind her back.

"So, I suppose this is it then," she said, in an unusually high-pitched voice, her back straighter up than usual. "It has been a good few days, and I absolutely enjoyed your – "

Bond abruptly leaned over and snatched the tiny booklet she was concealing rather unsuccessfully. He stared at it for some seconds before holding it up in front of her face. There was a little alarm in her expression, but she tried to look stubborn.

"What's this?" he asked icily.

"Quite obvious, isn't it?" she answered quietly. "Airline tickets to Mykonos."

Bond heaved a sigh of exasperation. "Your foolishness, girl – "

"I'm not a girl!" She cut him off with an angry hiss. She snatched back the tickets from him. Her eyes flared. "Just because I'm a little petite and cute doesn't mean that I'm stupid. I know the risks of going with you to Mykonos. Didn't it ever occur to you how absolutely scared I was when I was given that envelope by Miss Foster and told to give it to some stranger who coincidentally had to be rescued from some rural, abandoned warehouse and who had borne the most awful-looking wounds that were inflicted upon him by such an affluent and important man as Mikhail Sorescu?" She paused to take a breather. "I can't go back to Bucharest after seeing and knowing all that. My head will be had. I'm as good as dead."

"Then why did you do it?" asked Bond. Even Woodwick was staring at her intently now.

She gulped before answering. "He's my uncle. And he killed my father."

"No shit," Woodwick breathed, flabbergasted. Leda looked away, looking obviously distraught. Bond concluded that she was brave, brave enough to harbour revenge of that sort against Sorescu, but it was also a foolish sort of bravery. Why, she didn't look as if she could bear to see roadkill. However, she did have a point. Sending her back to Bucharest would do her no good. Besides, didn't he kind of owe the near-perfect convalescence of his appendix wound to her? Despite his better judgment, he said to her at last, "Come along then."

The moment her face broke into a wide and overjoyed smile, Bond turned his face away from her. Here was one of those people who thought that revenge was as simple as day and night, black and white. He felt the strongest of urges to put it to her face there and then, but somehow he could not.

Never mind, he would do it another day.

* * *

She lightly brushed the tip of her powder brush along the line of her cheekbone. Rumour had it that it would give a face a more structured look. And structured was definitely something she needed in her life right now. Her entire professional life was a mess – not only was she wanted by the government for some baseless, but unfortunately proven by means of manipulated evidence, accusation about betraying the Queen; the best part of it all was that she had stupidly agreed to play it to the way of James Bond.

She huffed with impatience and slammed her powder brush down onto the dressing table, then she proceeded to unscrew the cap of a tube of lipstick so forcefully that she dropped the whole damn thing.

_That stupid bastard,_ she thought furiously to herself.

"Hon?" said her husband, Fred from the bathroom. "Is everything all right, dear?"

"I'm – I'm fine," she answered as she bent to pick the lipstick up and proceeded to apply it briskly onto her lips.

Fred emerged from the bathroom, smelling of fresh cologne. He put on his straw hat and slung his rather expensive DSLR camera around his neck as she . "Shall I go down to breakfast first?"

"Yes, yes, you go first. I'll come around later," she replied absent-mindedly. She heard him leave and shut the door. Then she reached for her handbag, took out the mobile phone that she had purchased yesterday as well as her well-worn diary, and dialed a number.

"Hello?" a tired-sounding male voice answered on the other end.

"Villiers? It's M," she said.

"M?" the voice sounded more alert. "Goodness, where are you? Everyone's been looking for both you and Bond. They've also questioned everyone who's been known to work with you, including Moneypenny, the poor girl. But they've got nothing from them of course." He paused for a second. "You… you didn't actually do it, did you?"

"Of course not! I've given my arse to the government for more than half a decade. If I wanted to turn traitor I would have done it during the Cold War, where I could still make decent money from the Russians at least. You didn't get the rap?"

"Of course I did, but they found me clean. They've also got everyone who worked on the same floor as you under tight observation, all their calls, e-mails and even letters are censored until you both are found."

M scoffed. "That's why I called you. Thank God you dropped out to MFI before any of this mess ever happened. Listen, you've still got friends in the Secret Service, don't you? Do you think you could keep an eye for me on the situation in London? See if things are worsening or improving. You've got my number now. If there's anything, anything at all, call me all right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and M couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Villiers," she said quietly. "I did good with you."

"And you're afraid you didn't with Bond?" he replied.

M shook her head to herself. "I don't know. Sometimes I think I did the right thing, sometimes I don't. Most of the time I'm sorry for most of the things he's been put through, though none of them are my direct fault of course. I won't say that he's too young to have experienced all that, but no one should have to learn their lessons the hard way."

"The thing is, ma'am," said Villiers, albeit a little cautiously, to his former boss. "Some people just have to. It's ugly, but, that's how the world works. You and I both know that." His voice faltered.

"How are your children?" asked M, also with a hint of caution. "Are they doing well?"

"Well…" said Villiers, and M could picture him smiling a taut smile on the other end, "I wouldn't know, of course, how they should feel, being juggled between my home and my ex-wife's every week. She's married again too, did you know?" He laughed.

M clicked her tongue. "Well then, Villiers, I've got to go. Thank you, again."

"No problem, ma'am."

With that, M ended the call, stowed her mobile away in her handbag, shouldered it, and left the hotel room. The hotel where she and Fred stayed in was a pleasant, five-storey establishment with a wide, marble-floored foyer and a fantastic view of the Aegean from every room. M had rarely taken vacations during the entire course of her career. In a way, Bond's little mishap had been rewarding in the sense that it gave M some quality time with herself and her husband. For the past few days, they had nothing but eat good Greek food, go for long walks on the beautiful sandy beaches, and, quite simply, slow down to smell the roses.

_Perhaps I should consider retirement once this whole matter has boiled over_, she thought to herself with a smile just as she stepped into the dining hall.

Then she stopped in her tracks.

She spotted Fred at their usual table by one of the many ceiling-to-floor windows that allowed natural light to flood into the spacious dining hall. Seated directly opposite him, with his back facing her, was a man who was chatting with him in a measured manner. And she knew who it was all too well.

How dare he?

She sucked in her breath, her blood boiled in her ears, and marched directly up to their table. Fred noticed her first. He broke into a wide grin and said, "Hello, darling! Look who just happened to – "

But she cut him off. "What the bloody hell are you doing here, Bond?"

* * *

**Well well well! Haha, I can't even begin to describe how much I enjoyed delving into M's character, even though I've taken some liberties with it that might make her seem OOC. And you guys might find Leda Bertram's character a bit, well, ill-timed and odd, but I've got more stuff planned for her... so worry not, me hearties! All that you need to do is hit the REVIEW button and tell me what you think! Once again, Merry Christmas all of you and Happy New Year! ^^ (scuttles away in sheer excitement)**


	10. A Femur From the Closet

**Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I am ripping off from EON, Universal, Sony, Dreamworks, Fox whatever without making any real monetary profit from it. Too bad. XD**

**Chapter 10: A Femur from the Closet **

Bond took in her entire appearance: jeans, a white silk collared blouse, a floral-patterned scarf around her neck, a cheerier shade of lipstick than he had seen her wear in the office, a pair of black sandals and a cheap rattan handbag. So this was M in vacation mode.

He couldn't resist crooking a smile. "Hello, M."

She narrowed her eyes at him but spoke to her husband. "Fred, would you be so kind as to leave us to ourselves?"

Fred immediately got to his feet. The tone of his wife's voice was so sharp that it could have drawn blood. He dropped a light kiss on her cheek before mustering a hasty smile at Bond and scuttled away. M then almost threw her handbag onto the chair he had just vacated and proceeded to sit on it.

"Ah. Fred's at it again," she said rather icily as she picked up a box of Lucky Strike cigarettes from the table. She looked at it in disdain for a while before shrugging, withdrawing a stick from the box. "Have you got a light?"

Bond produced the box of hotel matches that he had nicked earlier. "Not going to offer me one, ma'am?"

M lit the cigarette, chucked the match out of the window, and took a huff before fixing her beady eyes at him. "After all the damage you've caused, do you seriously think I'll offer you a smoke to pacify your nerves? What nerves, you ask? Exactly. You're like a bull who's seeing red all over. You don't care what or who or how you hit."

Bond drew a deep breath. A long line of considerably clever retorts immediately formed in his mind, and he was about to spout them all out, but he checked himself. It wasn't going to do any of them much good anyway. "So what brings you to Mykonos?"

M threw him a sarcastic smile. "Oh heavens, ex-schoolmates now, aren't we, Bond? May I enforce my authority to put you in your place? Oh yes, I may. What are _you_ doing here?"

"Foster directed me here," he replied, holding up the envelope that he had picked up from the hotel counter which contained his cell phone, completely intact and unharmed. "With my mobile as guarantee. And she mentioned that I should meet someone in Mykonos. The moment I saw your husband I couldn't think of anyone else but you. It couldn't be a complete coincidence that she sent my phone all the way from Bucharest to the very hotel that you happen to go into hiding in."

"No, it couldn't," she admitted in a resigned manner as she butted out the cigarette. "Never really liked smoking anyway," she muttered.

From the looks of it, M didn't seem to be aware if she was supposed to play any part in Foster's little treasure hunt. She was just as clueless as he was. Bond was beginning to feel fed up and frustrated. But there had to be something. Foster didn't, and hopefully wouldn't, deliberately send him to M if there wasn't something M knew that she didn't and it would help him.

Then it occurred to him. "Do you know of a man named Ahab Benjadeel?"

She immediately looked sharply back at him, her eyes glinted with a suppressed what-the-hell. "Yes, why?"

Aha.

"Foster mentioned his name as one of Sorescu's business partners. Apparently he's a weapons dealer who committed himself to Sorescu only to pull out of the deal in the last minute. And of course we have to find out why. The problem is she hasn't given me any clue whatsoever as to find him." Bond reached into his pocket and handed Foster's letter, which he had folded and refolded neatly so many times that the creases showed when M opened it. A smirk formed on her face as she finished reading it and handed it back to him. "Snitch," she said with a scoff. "She knew you'd be showing me this letter."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that joke," said Bond dryly.

"Seven years ago before I threw her into Drakepoint, and yes I used the word 'throw' for a reason, she was a rookie agent who was just like you. Smart and aggressive for all the wrong reasons. Loved to vex us all to no end. But she was a pretty damn good strategist, until the day she got caught in her own setup. Nearly cost three other agents their lives in what was supposed to be a covert operation in Havana."

"Really? Should I be worried?" asked Bond blandly.

"Oh, who knows?" she replied, her tone deliberately high and airy as she leaned back in her chair. "For all you know she could very well be leading you to a 'dead end', and you wouldn't realize it till you're minutes away from it. She's one of the sly, irresistible spiders that you inevitably fall into a trap with, whether you like or love or hate her. I wasn't surprised at all when she got married to Sorescu. She usually gets what she wants, or more than what she wants."

"M," said Bond as sweetly as possible, leaning forward in his chair and smiling dryly, "as much as I appreciate your unnecessary mothering, I should like to think that I was sent here to fulfill a greater purpose than that. What about Ahab Benjadeel?"

M scoffed. "Mothering, you say? I have two grown children and, both of them combined, have never gave me as much of a hard time as you did." She shook her head and gave a brisk huff before she resumed, "Ahab Benjadeel and I went to Cambridge together. We were… good friends."

Bond noticed her hesitance and he showed it by raising his eyebrows.

"Oh what the hell," she muttered in exasperation, "we almost got married."

Bond smiled, a genuine one this time. "My, my. That's quite a bombshell, isn't it? Does Fred know?"

"He doesn't have to," she replied quickly. "It was a part of my past that I'd buried, and one that I won't even bother to get a tombstone for. I admitted I had acted quite rashly, being the radical, irrepressible youth that I was, but to cut a long story short it took me a spout of 'mothering' to make me see that I had almost made a terrible mistake." She narrowed her eyes pointedly at Bond.

Bond chose to ignore her attempt to validate her interference with his state of mind. "So do you have any idea as to where his current location might be?"

M clicked her tongue as she glanced out the window, a memory from times past snagging her mind. Bond waited patiently for her response. The distress of the chaotic past few days showed on her weathered features. "His step-aunt and uncle have a house in Marrakech. Might be worth a look. I'll give you the address."

Bond nodded as he handed her Foster's letter and a pen that he had 'borrowed' from his hotel room. Really, hotels were just too kind. "Thank you," he said quietly as he watched his superior write on the back of the letter, where the page was blank. As she did, he wondered what sort of life she had led in the past. She had said she was a radical, irrepressible youth. Could she have been a woman from an upper-crust family, who, frustrated by the expectations of her high-nosed parents and aunts and uncles, had almost eloped with a foreign college mate just for the thrill of it?

M eyed him briefly before she got to the last line. Bond felt it, and was a bit embarrassed because she had obviously caught at least a fleeting image of what had crossed his mind. The amusement must have showed on his face.

"He took me to meet them shortly after we were engaged," she said, albeit a little stonily. "He was much closer to them than he was to his parents." Her expression softened a bit. "Bond, I know we're not in office now, and, being on unofficial discharge until our names are cleared, I am aware that I have no authority or superiority over you, but," she paused for effect, "please try not to get them involved."

He nodded curtly as he got to his feet. "Will do, ma'am."

* * *

**Author's note: HEEY everyone!! Profuse apologies for the extremely late update... life has other plans for me. But I know it's not a good excuse! I also apologise for this story must seem like a merry wild goose chase - from Bucharest to Mykonos to Marrakech but hey the world has no shortage of exotic locales. Also, the chappie is a bit too short (I guess) and might be lacklustre in quality, so.... hey any comments just direct to the review box, aite? That's right, drop a review, y'all! Much appreciated! Hehehe..... REVIEW!!**


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